SOUTH-WEST 
COUNTRY 


_/ 


FREEMAN  E- 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


. 


These  are  his  meeds  :  Homes  fill  the  plains 
Where  he,  a  martyr,  walked  in  chains, 


And  every  place  where  once  he  stood 
Proclaims  the  glories  of  his  good  ! 


Songs  from  the 
west  Country  « 


freeman  16.  fllMller,  H.  flD. 

Author  of  "  Oklahoma,  and  Other  Poems,"  etc.  ; 
Professor  of  the  English  Language  and  Literature  in 
the  Oklahoma  Agricultural  and  Mechanical  College 


Dew  J?orh 

Ube  ftnfcfterbocfeer  press 
1898 


COPYRIGHT,  1898 

BY 
FREEMAN  E.  MILLER 

All  Rights  Reserved 


To 

His  EXCELLENCY 

HON.  CASSIUS   M.  BARNES 

GOVERNOR  OF  OKLAHOMA  TERRITORY 

WHOSE  LIFE  HAS  BEEN  GIVEN  TO  THE  DEVELOPMENT 

OF  THE  SOUTHWEST  COUNTRY  AND  TO  WHOSE  HEART  THAT 

FAVORED  LAND  is  AS  DEAR  AS  AN  ONLY  CHILD 

THIS  VOLUME  is  RESPECTFULLY 

INSCRIBED 


920837 


I  never  doubt  the  songs  we  sing 
Through  all  the  ages  grow  in  grace, 

Till  in  their  angel  anthems  ring 

The  loves  and  longings  of  the  race  ; 

They  treasure  up  for  deafened  ears 

The  murmurs  of  the  cycled  years, 

Till  at  the  last  in  music  roll 

Their  thunders  through  the  mystic  soul ! 


The  most  of  the  poems  in  this  volume  are  printed  here  for 
the  first  time  ;  several,  however,  have  appeared  in  the  Cen 
tury  Magazine,  the  Youth's  Companion,  Peterson's  Magazine, 
the  Bachelor  of  Arts,  the  Overland  Monthly,  and  other 
copyrighted  publications  ;  and  to  their  editors  thanks  are 
hereby  given  for  permission  to  reprint. 


CONTENTS. 


CAPTAIN  PAYNE  AND  His  HOME  IN  OKLAHOMA, 

Frontispiece. 

PAGE 

THE  SOUTHWEST  COUNTRY xi 

SONGS  FROM  THE  SOUTHWEST  COUNTRY. 

THE  OPENING  OF  OKLAHOMA  : 

AT  MORNING, — THE  DESERT  LAND      .        .        .        i 

AT  NOON, — THE  RACE  FOR  HOMES       ...        3 

AT  NIGHT, — THE  DESERT  CONQUERED         .         .        7 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  ALAMO        .....        9 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  WASHITA 19 

THE  PLAINT  OF  THE  TENDERFOOT        .        .        .        .27 
SLAUGHTERING  THE  PONIES          .....       32 

DAVID  L.  PAYNE  . -36 

KANSAS 39 

THE  STAMPEDE     .        . 42 

A  SONG  FOR  THE  SETTLER -45 

LINES  ON  CAPTAIN  PAYNE'S  CABIN       .        .        .        .      47 

MOUNTAIN  SONG 48 

"  WHEN  THE  GOLDEN-ROD  is  YELLOW  "      ...       49 
ON  THE  SHANKY-TANK        .        .-\.        .        .        .      50 

OKLAHOMA  ...        ....        .        .52 

THE  MISSISSIPPI  ......        .        .         .52 

THE  PLAINS 53 

BY  THE  OVERLAND  TRAIL 54 

"  WHERE  CUSTER  FELL  "  C4. 


viii  Contents. 

PAGE 

THE  COWBOY  POET 55 

THE  SUNFLOWER 55 

SONNETS. 

BOOKS 59 

THE  TEACHER -59 

ON  THE  GREAT  PYRAMID     ...        .        .        .60 

IN  A  PUBLIC  LIBRARY  .        .        .        ...        .61 

AT  ROSSETTI'S  GRAVE .      61 

NEW  ENGLAND     .        .        ...        .        .        .62 

IMMUTABLE 63 

THE  MIGHTIEST  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .63 

LILITH          . 64 

ABSENT 65 

PREOCCUPIED 65 

A  DREAM ,       .        .        .        .66 

To  —  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .67 

To 67 

THE  ONE  WHO  UNDERSTANDS 68 

SYMPATHY    .        .        . 69 

UNFORGETTING 69 

THE  DOOR  OF  LIFE .70 

INACTION 71 

To  THE  RESCUE 72 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

AT  EASTERTIDE 75 

THE  OLD  RANGE  ROAD        ......  79 

THE  NIGHT  .        .        . 85 

"  O  MY  HEART,  BE  BRAVE  AGAIN  !"  ....  88 

CREEDS 90 

THE  CONQUEROR  . 93 

IMMORTAL 95 

MIND 96 

DREAMER  AND  SINGER 98 

THE  ROSES  .  100 


Contents.  ix 

PAGE 

GREED  .        .        v       .        ...        .        .        •     102 

PLAYING  HORSE   .        .        .        .         '. '  •     .  '"   .'        .     104 

A  GLAD  PLAYFELLOW  .        .        .        ...        .     106 

THE  ON-MARCH  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .     108 

THE  DREAMER      .        .        .        .        .        ..''.*       .     no 

THE  STARS .        .     112 

THE  LITTLE  BOY'S  HAIR      ;•'       .        ...        .     113 
THE  LITTLE  DEAD  BABY      .        .        .        .        .        -115 

RENUNCIATION .     117 

"  THERE,  MY  HEART,  BE  STILL  A  MINUTE"       .        .118 

A  RAMBLE .     120 

UNFORGETTING    .        .        .•  .        .        .        .121 

THE  MINOR  CHORD      .        .        .        .        .        .        .     123 

IN  THE  NIGHT  *        ,,  124 

SAVE  THE  BOYS .     127 

TAKE  IT  EASY      .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .     128 

MY  LOVE      .        .        .        .        ;        .        .        .        .     129 

A  HEALTH    »  "     .        .        .        ...        .        .     130 

LONELINESS 131 

IN  MEMORY  OF  EUGENE  FIELD 133 

A  SUPPLIANT         ........     134 

MOTHERHOOD 135 

THE  COMMONPLACES 136 

JOY  ABIDES .        .        .     137 

THE  HOURS          .        .        .        .        .        .        ."•',.     138 

UNDISMAYED        .        .        .        .        .        .        ".        .139 

"ALAS!  MY  OWN  HARP!" 140 

FAITH  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .     141 

BENEATH  THE  PINES     .        .        .       -.        .        .        .141 

IN  LOTUS  LAND    .        .        .        .       '.        .        .        .     142 

AN  EPITAPH          .        .        .        .      -.        .        .        .     143 

LIFE'S  TRINITY .     143 

FORSAKEN .        .        .     144 

BUD  AND  BLOOM ,  144 

THE  MUSICIAN .        .     145 

LOVE  AND  DEATH         .        .        .        ...        .145 


x  Contents. 

PAGE 

DEATH 146 

THE  DEAD  SINGER 146 

THE  ANGELUS 147 

BIRTH'S  MIRACLE         .......     147 

Two  PRAYERS 148 

AMBITION 148 

LOVE 148 

THE  POET 149 

THE  MINSTREL'S  POWER       ......     149 

LIFE 150 

TRADITION 150 

THE  CREATION  OF  ART 150 

GOD'S  CHILDREN 151 

IN  A  VOLUME  OF  POEMS 151 

HERO  AND  SINGER        .        .        .        .        .  .151 

TO-DAY  AND  TO-MORROW  .        .        .        .        .        .152 

THE  DEAD  SEER 152 

ONE  SAYING         .        .       - .152 

To  A  SINGER  I  NEVER  SAW 153 

LIMITED .153 

TRUTH'S  MIGHTINESS 153 

SELF-MADE 153 

THE  DEAD  WAIF 154 

A  PRAYER    .        .        .        .  : 154 

DUTY 154 

IN  DIALECT. 

THE  FAITH  CURE 157 

OLE  JIM  HANKINS 169 

THE  BANKS  OF  TURKEY  RUN 177 

MORALIZIN'S 184 

"  TORE  WILLYUM  WRIT  A  BOOK  "       .        .        .        .  187 
"  WHEN  THE  ROAS'IN'-EARS  is  PLENTY  "     ,        .        .189 

"  PUT 'ER  THAYRE  PER  NINETY  DAYS  !"      .        .         .  192 

AT  FWEDDIE'S 194 

L'ENVOI 196 


THE  SOUTHWEST  COUNTRY. 

C  TUPENDOUS  reach  of  vale  and  mountain-side, 

*'-'     Of  wooded  continents  and  seas  of  plain, 
Of  grassy  oceans  glad  with  isles  of  grain, 

Where  trains  of  traffic,  ships  of  commerce,  ride  ; 

Far  distances  that  rouse  prodigious  pride 

And  clamor  hope  to  hosts  that  strive  in  vain, — 
Productive  empires  boundless,  whose  rich  gain 

Shall  crown  with  plenteousness  the  nations  wide  ! 

Thou  hast  achieved  already  !     Thy  frontiers 
Are  mighty  with  the  holy  labors  wrought 

By  nameless  heroes  of  exalted  quest ; 
And  in  thy  bosom  sleep  the  pioneers 

Who  thrilled  thy  silences  with  sudden  thought 
And  woke  the  vastness  of  the  great  southwest ! 


Songs  from  tbe  Soutbweet  Country 


THE  OPENING  OF  OKLAHOMA. 

APRIL    22,     [889. 

At  Morning,— The  Desert  Land. 


I 


N  silence,  lone  and  tenantless  but  fair, 

The  desert  stands,  as  on  the  morn  it  stood 
When  God  first  breathed  upon  the  brooding  earth, 
And  all  the  throbbing  life  of  wood  and  field, 
Of  rounded  hills  and  valleys  wide,  appeared 
In  shades  and  shapes  of  beauty  ;  when  fond  hands 
With  sweet  adornment  glorified  the  world, 
Sowed  blossoms  o'er  the  gaping  mountain-sides, 
And  wreathed  the  vales  with   gladness,  while  the 

streams 

Flowed  with  bright  waters  that  in  music  sang 
Over  the  gentle  ripples.     Perfect  world  ! 
New  from  its  Maker's  hands,  it  mutely  stood, 
Expectant,  ready,  for  its  master,  Man  ; 
So  stands  the  desert  now,  unvexed,  unmarred, 
By  man's  relentless  labor,  sweet  and  fair 


2          Songs  from  tbc  Soutbwest  Country. 

As  when  God  looked  upon  the  new-born  earth, 
Beheld  its  perfect  comeliness,  and  said, 
"  Lo,  all  is  good  !  " 

The  grasses  waving  bend 
Before  the  dewy  breezes  ;  willows  nod 
Beside  the  scanty  streams,  and  scattered  woods 
Breathe  sighs  of  longing  welcome  ;  the  wild  birds, 
Croaking  wild  cries  instinct  with  fear's  alarm, 
Shriek  out  exultant  curses  ;  the  fierce  beasts, 
Bloody  from  battle  with  their  fellows,  go 
With  haste  unwonted  to  their  savage  lairs  ; 
But  Nature  rules,  an  empress  on  whose  realm 
No  foreign  footstep  falls  in  rebeldom. 
No  lazy  smoke  from  chimneys  made  with  hands 
Floats  in  the  air  ;  no  human  voices  vex 
The  hills  and  valleys  ;  no  rude  labors  mar 
The  swarded  prairies'  velvet  lawns  of  peace  ; 
No  laughter  light,  no  anguished  chorus,  floats 
From  aught  save  Nature  and  her  savage  slaves, 
While  through  the  meanings  of  their  restless  dreams 
There  comes  no  warning  of  impending  change, 
Of  empire's  mighty  march  ;  and  man  with  feet 
Shod  with  the  steel  of  progress  fleet  and  swift, 
Beneath  whose  tread  the  wilderness  shall  change, 
And  at  the  echoes  of  whose  coming,  toil 
Shall  wake  the  ages  from  their  solemn  sleep, 
Order  to  chaos  yield  her  kingdoms  large, 
That  order  may  a  grander  kingdom  gain — 
And  man  shall  plant  his  banners  flaunting  far 
With  civilization  and  her  thousand  arts 
That  lead  and  lift  the  nations  to  the  sky. 


Cbe  Opening  of  Oklahoma. 
At  Noon, —  The  Race  for  Homes. 

Behold  !     As  from  the  shades  of  night 

An  army  gathers  full  of  might, 

And  strong  with  constant  courage  stands 

'Tween  civilized  and  savage  lands, 

Where,  vast  in  power,  the  legion  waits 

The  turning  of  the  desert  gates, 

That  men  of  might  may  enter  in 

And  labor  all  her  glories  win  ! 

Lo,  where  these  thousands  make  assail, 

The  barren  ages  all  shall  fail, 

And  swift  advancement  far  be  hurled 

O'er  sleeping  empires  and  the  world  ! 

The  morning  hours  haste  hurried  by  ; 
The  noon, — the  noon  is  drawing  nigh  ! 
The  anxious  host  with  restless  eyes 
Marks  well  each  rapid  hour  that  flies, 
While  hope,  exulting,  wildly  rolls 
The  highest,  such  as  filled  the  souls 
Of  Jason  and  his  comrades  bold 
Who  sought  the  famous  fleece  of  gold, 
And  bound  in  one  adventurous  band 
Brought  treasures  from  a  foreign  land. 
Impatient  steeds  with  fretting  feet 
Upon  the  trampled  grasses  beat  ; 
The  dins  of  harsh,  discordant  cries 
Above  the  thrilling  thousands  rise  ; 
Shrilly  the  scattered  children  call, 
And  soft  the  words  of  women  fall, 


Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

While  men  with  voices  hushed  and  weak 
Their  low  commands  impatient  speak  ; 
Till  suddenly  a  mighty  cry, 
A  shout  of  warning,  smites  the  sky  : 

"Attention!     Ho, 

Attention  here  ! 
Attention  !     Lo, 

The  noon  is  near  !  " 
O'er  hill  and  brake 

Resounds  the  warning  cry  ; 

The  moment  great  is  nigh  ; 
The  hosts  awake  ; 
Awake,  to  strive  with  mad  delight, 
Awake,  to  win  the  friendly  fight ! 
And  from  the  camps  anear  and  far, 
Where  nervous  haste  and  hurry  are, 
Vast  legions  gather  on  the  plain, 
Till  chaos  and  confusion  reign  ; 
The  neighing  steed  with  quickened  pace 
Impatient  seeks  the  vantage-place  ; 
The  slower  ox  with  lightened  load 
Stands  waiting  in  the  crowded  road, 
And  wagon,  buggy,  carriage,  cart, 
Vehicles  formed  with  rudest  art, 
All  forward,  forward,  forward  dart, 
Swift-forming  on  the  level  ground 
Where  most  advantage  may  be  found. 

"  Line  up  !     Ho,  there  ! 
Line  up  !     Line  up  !  " 


Cbe  Opening  of  Oklahoma. 

The  hurried  order  smites  the  air  ; 
Above  the  silent  prairies  fair 

Unseen  progression  holds  her  cup, 
Filled  to  the  brim  with  magic  seeds 
That  harvests  hold  for  human  needs. 
Excitement  grows  on  beasts  and  men  ; 
The  saddle-girths  are  tightened  o'er, 
The  stirrups  lengthened  out  once  more, 
And  silence  softly  falls  again  ; 
Each  bit  and  buckle,  strap  and  band, 
Is  tested  o'er  with  careful  hand, 
Till  man  and  beast,  in  chosen  place, 
Stand  ready  for  the  coming  race. 

The  circling  sun 
His  morning  race  has  fully  run  ; 

A  waving  hand 

Signals  above  the  brief  command 
That  sight  and  sense  will  understand, — 
And  open  swings  the  desert  land  ! 
A  shot !     A  hundred,  thousand  more 
The  grassy  meadows  echo  o'er  ; 
A  shout !     From  countless  throats  a  shout 
On  rolling  wings  leaps  madly  out ! 
A  yell,  a  raging  roar,  that  flies 

On  bounding  winds  o'er  hill  and  glen, 
And  'round  the  land  electrifies 

A  thousand  living  miles  of  men  ! 

A  mammoth  stir, 
A  sudden  dash, 


Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Swift  whip  and  spur 

Together  clash, 
And  wheels  on  wheels  that  totter,  crash  ! 

They  're  off  !     They  're  off  ! 
Away  !     Away  ! 
In  mad  array  ! 
No  stop  nor  stay  ! 
The  hurried  charge  they  ride  to-day 

Would  shame  and  scoff 
The  Tartar,  Turk,  and  Romanoff  ! 

The  race  is  on  ; 

The  host  is  gone  ; 

All  forward  thrust 

Through  clouds  of  dust  ; 
The  thronging  legions  madly  ride 

O'er  hill  and  dale, 
With  hurried  pace  unsatisfied, 

In  fierce  assail 

Where  none  may  fail  ; 
And  one  by  one,  exhausted  sheer, 
The  racing  thousands  disappear  ; 
Till  only  shadows  dimly  blent 
Tell  where  the  mounted  armies  went, 
Like  shifting  shadows,  faint  and  dim, 
Or  ghostly  spectres,  gaunt  and  grim, 
Beyond  the  far  horizon's  rim  ! 

Behold  !  Adown  the  valleys  bright 
The  last  lone  straggler  fades  from  sight, 
And  only  hasty  hoof-beats  say, 
In  echoes  from  the  far-off  hills, 


Cbc  Opening  of  ©fclaboma.  7 

What  thousands  rode  the  race  to-day 

With  hopeful  hearts  and  fearless  wills  ; 
What  hosts  with  hands  that  build  and  bless 
Found  homes  amid  the  wilderness  ! 

At  Night, —  The   Desert   Conquered. 

Ten  thousand  tents  above  the  wilderness, 
Conquered  so  quickly  from  the  lonely  realms 
And  brought  beneath  man's  sceptre  of  control, 
To  tremble  at  his  feet  and  slowly  change 
Before  the  forming  touches  of  his  hand, 
Mark  cities  newly  born,  that  swift  shall  grow 
The  wonders  of  an  age  all  wonderful. 
Ten  thousand  camp-fires  in  the  valleys  broad, 
Bright  torches  of  the  newer  life,  whose  fires 
Advancement's  magic  hands  have  widely  built, 
Show  where  new  homes  are  founded,  and  the  strife 
Which  man  and  nature  shall  forever  wage 
Hath  here  beginning  ;  transformation  throws 
Her  kindly  sceptre  o'er  the  lonely  lands. 
The  virgin  grasses  thrill  beneath  the  tread 
Of  hurried  feet ;  the  wild  birds  hiding  flee, 
And  savage  beasts  to  savage  haunts  retire. 
Secluded  springs,  untouched  by  human  lips, 
Unvexed  by  human  shadows,  since  the  morn 
When  first  they  flowed  from  earth's  abundant  breast, 
Mirror  unwonted  faces,  fondly  press 
Soft  touches  to  the  unfamiliar  lips. 
In  night's  dear  arms  of  rest  the  wearied  hosts 
Fall  on  the  conquered  fields  like  warriors  old 


8          Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

And  dream  of  homes  wrought  from  the  wilderness  ; 
Of  porches  wide  with  clustered  blossoms  wreathed, 
Of  lasting  shades  and  tender  breezes  cool, 
Love's  gentle  looks,  and  songs  of  happy  birds, 
Plenty  and  progress  in  a  land  of  might 
Rich  in  the  boundless  wealth  that  blesses  man 
And  leads  his  longings  forward  to  the  tall 
Results  of  time  and  toil's  unfailing  growth. 
Empires  arise  of  pride  and  promise  full, 
With  conquest  high,  like  prince  and  peasant  won 
On  fields  historic  where  the  clash  of  arms, 
The  battle's  thunder,  and  the  striving  host, 
Shook  earth's  foundations  through  the  lowest  depths 
And  filled  the  farthest  ages  with  their  might. 
Dreams  fill  with  wondrous  fancies  far-off  days, 
The  hills  and  valleys  that  with  sudden  homes 
Man's  tireless  hands  have  clothed  ;  but  prophecy 
Inspires  the  tender  dreams,  and  time  shall  fill 
Out  to  the  utmost  all  that  fancy  forms, 
All  that  she  brings  from  shadows  and  beholds, 
Brighter  and  greater  than  the  dreams  she  dreamed. 
The  world  shall  search  the  years'  vast  volumes  o'er 
With  eagerness  and,  wearied,  rest  in  vain, 
To  find  another  scene  for  precedent. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  ALAMO. 

IT  'S  East  and  West  and  North  and  South, 

—it 's  the  Old  World  and  the  New  ;  — 
It  's  every  place  that  the  human  race  has  warred  and 

wandered  through  ; 
But  not  the  years  that  the  ancients  lived,  nor  the  years 

that  the  moderns  know, 

Such  deeds  have  wrought  as  the  men  who  fought  at 
the  Church  of  the  Alamo  ! 

"  What  see  you,  frightened  sentinel,  that  thus  you 
bend  your  eyes  ? 

Do  herds  of  cattle  or  packs  of  wolves  o'erwhelm 
you  with  surprise  ?  " 

'  'T  is  neither  wolves  nor  cattle  that  march  and 
march  again  ; 

4  'T  is  Santa  Anna's  army, — 't  is  twice  three  thou 
sand  men  ! " 


"  Nay,  nay,  my  faithful  guardsman  ! — God's  curses 

on  the  foe  ! — 
You  must  be  mad  or  drunken, — your  eyes  deceive 

you  so  ! 


io        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

For  Santa  Anna  's  far  away  with  all  his  blare  and 
boast, 

Afraid  to  battle  freedom's  few  with  his  unnum 
bered  host ! " 

"  'T  is  he, — the  Greaser  !    he,  I  know  !     There — 

yonder — in  the  west  ! 
Mine  eyes  do  not  deceive  me, — no  !     His  lances  are 

at  rest  ; 
The  long  lines  sweep  and  forward  creep,  beneath 

the  gleaming  sun  ! 
O  God  of  Freedom,  help  us  now  !     They  're  fifty 

to  our  one  !  " 

"  Ho,  troopers,  to  your  saddles  now  !  You — you  ! 

Ride — ride — your  best ! 
To    where    yon    guardsman    says    he    sees    the 

Greasers  in  the  west ; 
Right  bold  ye  are  !      Ride  fast  and  far  !      And, 

prove  it  ill  or  well, 
Bring  back  report !     We  '11  make  work  short  with 

these  wild  imps  of  hell !  " 

Forth,  forth  they  ride  ;  up  yon  hillside,  with  hoofs 

that  spurn  the  ground, 
The  horses  gallop,  gallop  on,  with  faint  and  fainter 

sound  ; 
And  o'er  the  summit,  passing  down,  the  horsemen 

slowly  sink, 
With  courage  whirled  into  that  world  which  waits 

beyond  the  brink. 


tlbe  Ballad  of  tbe  Blamo.  n 

"  A  musket-shot  ?    A  pistol-shot  ?    Ride,  ride,  ride, 

men,  for  life  ! 
A  hundred  lancers  after  them  !    God  !  for  an  equal 

strife  ! 
Fling  wide  the  gates  !  There  safety  waits  for  all  who 

love  the  Star  ; 
And  Death's  red  wounds  to  all  that  dare  with  it  to 

offer  war  ! 

"And  yonder  comes  the  armied  host !     Ah,  guard, 

your  eyes  were  true  ! 
And  yonder  comes  the  horse  and  foot  that  shall 

make  short  of  you  ! 
Short  shift  of  you,  short  shift  of  us, — they  're  fifty 

to  our  one  ! 
The  battle  would   be  over   here  before  the   fight 

begun  ! 

"  The  Church  !  The  Church  !  Its  courts  are  wide, 

its  walls  are  firm  and  strong  !  " 
O'er  Brazos'  stream,  with  herd  and  team,  the  heroes 

move  along  ; 
They  are  not  first,  they  are  not  last,  of  those  who 

from  the  foe 
Found   refuge   sure  and  safe,   secure,    within  the 

Alamo  ! 

Now  pause,  ye  foes  !  Your  leader  well  the  strength 

and  power  has  known 
Of    hearts   and   souls    aflame   for   right   and   for 

their  country's  own  ! 


12        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Beyond   your   arms,  despising   harms,  triumphant 

over  ills, 
They  '11  meet  attack  and  hurl  you  back,  while  every 

bullet  kills  ! 

"  A  messenger  !  A  Flag  of  Truce  !     What  does  the 

Wolf  presume  ? 
Thinks  he  that  we  '11  surrender  now  ?   Too  well  we 

know  that  doom  ! 
But  ride  you  forth  and  meet  him  there,  and  bring 

his  word  to  me  : 
A   cannon-shot   from   hell  red-hot  my  sole   reply 

shall  be! 

"  The   Greaser   Dog  !     '  Surrender  at   discretion  ; 

with  a  word, 
If  you  persist  in  holding  out,  your  hearts  shall  have 

the  sword  ! ' 
Ho,  gunner,  pull  the  lanyard  now  !      A  throat  of 

flame  shall  show 
How  such  commands  from  despot  lips  receive  the 

answer  '  No  ! ' 

"  Now    look   you,   comrade    soldiers !      On    San 

Fernando's  towers 
A  blood-red  rag  supplants  the  Flag !     No  quarter 

shall  be  ours  ! 
But  his  the  blood  whose  coward  flood  shall  run  the 

valleys  through  ! 
Now  '  God  and  Texas '   be  our  cry  for  God  and 

Texas,  too  ! " 


3BallaJ>  of  tbe  Blamo.  13 

The  foe  draws  nigh  ;    and  thundering  high  wild 

roars  the  cannonade  ; 
And  yonder  o'er  the  rolling  stream  a  hasty  bridge 

is  made  ; 
But  the  rifles  of  the  Texans  are  aimed  at  heart  and 

head, 
And  like  the  leaves  in  autumn-time  the  Mexicans 

are  dead! 

Loud  ring  the  cries  of  conflict !  Loud  roll  and  roar 

the  guns, 
And  nearer,  nearer,  creep  the  lines  to  Freedom's 

watching  sons  ; 
Each  single  night  with  deadly  might  the  batteries 

leap  and  glow, 
While  every  road  is  garrisoned  with  thousands  of 

the  foe. 

"Thrice  welcome,  men  from  Gonzales  !  Thrice  wel 
come,  one  and  all  ! 

You  Ve  hurried  far  and  here  you  are,  and  here  we  '11 
fight  and  fall ; 

You  '11  find  some  neat  diversion  sweet  before  you 
leave,  my  braves, 

But  arms  all  true  of  thirty-two  are  worth  a  thousand 
slaves  !  " 

Now  yonder  on  the  eastern  road  the  skirmished 

horsemen  fight ; 
Now  yonder  by  the  river-side  the  jackals  flame  at 

night ; 


14        Songs  from  tbc  Soutbwest  Country. 

But  closer  draw  the  batteries, — the  Wolf  will  have 

his  own  ! 
Send,  send  for  help,  brave  Travis  !     You  are  too 

weak  alone  ! 

"  Now  saddle  up  your  swiftest  horse,  and  draw  the 

cinches  tight, — 
It  is  a  wild  and  lonely  ride  that  you  must  make 

to-night ! 
Away  to  Houston  at  the  front,  and  tell  him  that  we 

call 
For  men  to  help  and  men  to  hope  and  men  to  save 

us  all ! 

"  And  should  relief  not  come  to  us, — we  never  shall 

retreat ! 
Our  flag  shall  float, — we  will  not  yield, — to  die  for 

home  is  sweet ! 
Like  soldiers  who  can  ne'er  forget  love  to  their  land 

is  due, — 
We  all  shall  live  with  honor  still,  and  die  with  honor 

too! 

"  And  hasten,  Bonham,  hasten,  on  steeds  that  gallop 

mad  ! 

Away,  away  !    No  stop  nor  stay  !    Away  to  Goliad  ! 
For  Fannin  with  his  strong  right  arm  and  his  three 

hundred  men 
Shall  overthrow  the  Greaser  foe  and  scourge  him 

home  again  !  " 


IX be  Ballad  of  tbe  ZUamo.  15 

Then  Travis  called  his  men  to  him  :  "  The  end  is 

near,"  said  he  ; 
"  But  yet  there  's  room  to  slip  the  doom,  for  all  who 

care  to  flee  ! 
As  for  myself,  here  shall  I  stay,  whatever  fate  may 

chance : 
Let  him  who  wills  to  share  my  ills  across  this  line 

advance  !  " 

Then  down  he  stooped  and  drew  his  sword,  and  on 

the  trampled  sod 
He  traced  a  line  of  straight  design  :  "  For  Texas 

and  our  God," 
In  grim  prayer  rose  from  lips  of  those,  and  up  he 

glanced,  to  find 
Eight  score  and  more  had  stepped  it  o  'er,  and  none 

were  left  behind ! 

There  are  men  and  women  that  perish  ;  they  die  on  the 

sea  and  the  shore \ 
For  the  storm  and  the  plague  and  the  bullet  are  awake 

and  at  work  evermore  j 
But  the  angels  above  who  are  watching  sing  gladly 

with  glorified  breath 
When  the  men  who  may  choose  base  living  refuse  and 

go  bravely  down  to  the  death  ! 


Be  ready,  O  ye  heroes,  by  despot  arms  assailed  ! 
For  Houston  is  at  Washington  and  Fannin's  men 
have  failed  ; 


16        Songs  trom  tbc  Soutbwest  Country. 

Your  eyes  are  tired  with  watching,  your  hope  and 

help  are  gone, 
And  Santa  Anna's  savage  hosts  will  storm  the  fort 

at  dawn  ! 

The  bugles  blare   the   frenzied  "  Charge  !  "   The 

bands  Deguelo  play  ; 
The  cry,  "  No  quarter,"  leaps  and  rolls  above  the 

morning  gray  ; 
Now  God  protect  the  heroes  there  !     If  Santa  Anna 

wins, 
Each  Texan  there  shall  slaughter  share,  if  once  the 

work  begins. 

In  yonder  plaza  stands  the  chief  beside  the  hidden 

gun, 
While  forward,  forward,  in  attack  the  footmen  rush 

and  run  ; 
To  north  and  east,  to  north  and  west,  the  thronging 

thousands  swarm, 
And  oh,  the  horrid  wings  of  death  that  ride  upon 

the  storm  ! 

On  still  they  sweep  !     Is  there  no  help — no  arm 

outstretched  to  save  ? 
Alas,  that  might  can  conquer  right,  the  many  slay 

the  brave  ! 
Like  shambled  sheep  the  thousands  leap  across  the 

wall, — an  d — th  en — 
From  room  to  room — they  drive — to — doom — the 

still  unconquered  men  ! 


JSallaC)  of  tbe  Blamo.  17 

Here  Travis  fell ;  here  Bonham  died  ;  here  Evans 

perished,  too  ; 
There  Crockett  fell,  by  danger  slain,  who  danger 

never  knew  ; 
There  Bowie,  on  his  bed  of  death,  with  pistols  made 

reply 
To  all  his  foes  required  of  him,  and  taught  them 

how  to  die  ! 

How  red  and  rare  the  deep  wounds  stare  !     The 

Church  this  Sabbath  day 
Knows   scenes   that   none    e'er    saw   before   who 

gathered  here  to  pray  ; 
For  dead  and  dying  Mexicans  are  counted  hundreds 

five, 
And  of  the  gallant  Texans  not  one  is  left  alive  ! 

God  rest  them  well !     Their  blood  and  brawn  were 

gifts  to  liberty  ; 
They  died  to  save  the  Lone  Star  Flag,  and  make 

their  people  free  ; 
And   love   shall   keep  their  holy  sleep  and  twine 

sweet  garlands  when 
The  heart  of  Freedom  mourns  above  brave  Travis 

and  his  men. 

O,  it 's  East  and  West  and  North  and  South, — it  's  the 

Old  World  and  the  New  j 
It 's  every  place  that  the  human  race  has  warred  ana 

wandered  through  j 


is        Songs  trom  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

But  not  the  years  that  the  ancients  lived  nor  the  years 

that  the  moderns  know 
Such  deeds  have  wrought  as  the  men  who  fought  at  the 

Church  of  the  Alamo  ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  WASHITA. 

(The  battle  of  the  Washita  was  fought  November  28,  1868, 
near  the  present  town  of  Cheyenne,  Roger  Mills  County, 
Oklahoma,  between  General  Caster's  Seventh  Cavalry  and 
Black  Kettle's  band  of  Indians.) 

"I  ^HERE  are  battles  by  populous  cities  and  battles 

where  business  roars  ; 
There  are  battles  in  song-famous  valleys  and  battles  on 

ballad-sung  shores  ; 
But  the  battles  that  conquered  the  prairies  and  laid  the 

red  devils  to  rest 

Are  the  battles  of  bounty  and  blessing  that  live  in  the 
lives  of  the  West. 

There  's  many  a  soldier  lives  in  song  whose  deathless 

deeds  were  bold, 
But  Custer  was  much  the  bravest  man  that  ever  had 

heart  of  gold  ; 
There  's  many  a  regiment  rolled  in  fame,  but  none 

could  braver  be 
Than  the  men  who  rode  to  the  Washita  in  the  Seventh 

Cavalry  ! 

The  savage  tribes  in  paint  and  plume  have  danced 

the  dance  of  war, 
And  bursting  from  the  far  southwest  have  wandered 

fast  and  far ; 

19 


20        Son0s  from  tbc  Soutbwest  Country. 

And  where  they  sweep  the  settler's  keep  in  fire  and 

smoke  has  fled, 
While   settler,   wife,  and   children, — all  are   lying 

scalped  and  dead  ! 

The  swart  Cheyenne  and  Kiowa,  the  tall  Arapahoe, 

Comanche,  and  Apache  fierce,  have  joined  the 
fiendish  foe  ; 

And  swift  along  the  far  frontier  with  fire  and  slaugh 
ter,  too, 

They  've  scourged  the  Kansas  hills  and  plains  with 
deeds  that  demons  do. 

"  Ho,  to  your  saddles,  Custer  !  "     Then  thundered 

Sheridan  ; 
"  There  's  work  to  do  for  such  as  you  and  for  your 

gallant  men  ; 
I  trust  you  well  in  everything  ;  with  neither  wait 

nor  word 
Drive  back  these  beasts  into  their  lairs  and  make 

them  feel  your  sword  !  " 

"  My  boys  are  quick  and  tireless,  sir  ;  no  blade  of 

grass  shall  grow 
Beneath  our  feet  until  we  meet  and  slay  the  savage 

foe  ; 
With  lively  pains  we  '11  scour  the  plains  ;   we  '11 

soothe  to  rest  again 
The  seven  seas  of  broad  prairies  and  give  them  back 

to  men  !  " 


Battle  of  tbc  Wasbita.  21 

"  Now,  red-skins,    to   your  villages,  and  pray  the 

Manitou, 

For  Custer  and  his  cavalry  are  on  the  trail  for  you  ! 
And  you  shall  feel  their  swords  of  steel, — 't  is  war's 

relentless  law, — 
And  see  your  lodges  stained  with  blood  beside  the 

Washita." 

It  was  a  gallant  regiment  that  marched  from  old 

Fort  Hays 
To  hunt  the  prowling  savages  in  those  October 

days  ; 
High  beat  their  hearts  and  fearless,  and  plagues  of 

want  and  woe 
Were  bred  to  fall  on  each  and  all  that  dared  to  be 

a  foe  ! 

It  's  southward  over  Kansas  the  eager  troopers 
press  ; 

It 's  past  Fort  Dodge,  and  on  and  on,  into  the  wil 
derness  ; 

It  's  marching,  marching,  through  the  day,  it  's 
mounting  guard  by  night, 

Until  at  last  the  game  is  treed  ;  now,  soldiers,  to  the 
fight! 

"  Ho,  troopers,  do  you  see  it  ?  Here  runs  the  re 
cent  trail  ! 

Not  far  the  Indian  village  now  ;  your  mission  shall 
not  fail  ; 


22        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Ere  long  the  murdered  white  men,  the  women  worse 

than  slain, 
By  your  brave  arms  avenge  their  harms,  and  rest  at 

peace  again." 

Through  sleet  and  snow  the  soldiers  go  ;  what  mat 
ters  wind  or  cold  ? 

Their  strong  hearts  warm  defy  the  storm,  with  cour 
age  brave  and  bold  ; 

Though  quick-sands  yawn  and  ice  impedes,  yet 
uncomplainingly 

They  forward  march  where  Custer  leads — the 
Seventh  Cavalry  ! 

"  Now  steadily  and  silently,  O  scouts,  with  caution 
crawl  ! 

A  single  sound  may  reach  the  foe,  and  warn  him 
once  for  all ; 

Too  far  we  come,  too  far  we  march  ;  't  were  ever 
more  our  shame, 

If  some  neglect  should  rouse  him  now,  and  rob  us 
us  of  our  game. 

"  Ho,  ho  !     Ho,  ho  !     Here  ashes  glow  !     We  now 

are  near  at  last ; 
Heard  ye  that  howl  ?     A  snapping  cur  growls  o'er 

his  rough  repast ! 
And — lower  still !     Ye  gods,  what  ill  !     A  baby's 

fretful  cry  ! 
Alas,  that  men  such  deeds  must  do,  and  little  ones 

must  die  !  " 


Cbe  JBattle  of  tbe  TKflasbfta.  23 

Now  to  the  east  and  to  the  west  and  to  the  north 
and  south, 

The  men  in  silence  find  their  way  across  the  val 
ley's  mouth  ; 

O  sleeping  red-skins,  to  your  prayers  !  Invoke  the 
Manitou, 

For  Custer  and  his  cavalry  are  all  surrounding  you  ! 

It  's  little  rest  the  soldiers  take  ;    it  's  little  sleep 

they  know, 
So   cold   the   night   howls   overhead,  so  deep  the 

drifted  snow  ; 
But  tired  limbs  and  heavy  eyes  have  hastened  far 

away, 
For  "  Garryowen  "  and  the  "  Charge  "  shall  sound 

at  break  of  day. 

"  The  East  grows  pale  ;  the  shadows  fail !     When 

will  the  bugle  blow  ? 
Whose  that  command  which  lags  behind, — which 

keeps  us  waiting  so  ?" 
Hark !     Loud  and  clear  with  cheer  on  cheer  the 

"  Charge  "  rings  on  the  air, 
And,  ere  the  lodges  leap  awake,  the  strong-limbed 

men  are  there  ! 

Now   steady,  steady,  steady,  men  !     Be   cautious 

through  the  strife  ! 
Each  lodge  leaps  up,  the  village  wakes,  with  savage, 

naked  life  ! 


24        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Countrg. 

On  fast  and  far !  On,  lines  of  war  !  Like  tigers 
for  their  prey, 

Sweep  onward  still  o'er  highest  hill,  and  every  foe- 
man  slay  ! 

But  yonder,  yonder  fires  the  foe  from  every  far 
ravine  ! 

And  yonder,  yonder,  through  the  trees,  the  skulk 
ing  braves  are  seen  ! 

And  there,  and  here,  from  tepees  near,  the  swarthy 
squaws  reveal 

With  deadly  rifles  aimed  too  well,  the  deadly  hate 
they  feel  ! 

Let  not  that  dirge  wake  pity  now  !     Hard,  hard  let 

hearts  remain  ! 
So  shrieked,  so  mourned  white  women,  too,  o'er 

babes  and  husbands  slain  ! 
'T  is  but  the  death-song  born  of  fear  ;  if  Death  is 

master  there, 
God  let  them  know  how  fierce  is  woe  that  prays  a 

hopeless  prayer  ! 

Behind  each  bush  a  foeman  lurks — behind  each  rock 

and  tree  ; 
Charge  right  and  left  !     Charge  back  and  forth,  till 

every  one  shall  flee  ! 
Red  hearts  must  feel  the  stroke  of  steel ;  for  still 

their  victims  cry 
For  vengeance  on  the  ruthless  foe, — for  vengeance 

mountains  high  ! 


Cbe  JBattle  of  tbe  TRUasbita.  25 

Up  hill,  down  vale,  the  troopers  charge ;  and  fast 

the  warriors  all 
Before  the  swords  of  righteous  wrath  in  terror  flee 

and  fall  ; 
And  every  stroke  writes  down  in  blood  what  ne'er 

was  writ  before, 
"Black  Kettle  and  his  savage  band  shall  ride  the 

plains  no  more  !  " 

Now  rest  ye,  gallant  troopers  all  !  The  weary  chase 
is  done ; 

The  savages  are  loose  no  more,  the  battle  has  been 
won  ; 

These  ghastly  forms — five  score  and  more — pro 
claim  how  well  have  wrought 

Your  soldier  arms,  your  soldier  swords,  that  leaped 
with  righteous  thought. 

O  sleepers  on  the  wide,  wide  plains  !   O  mangled, 

murdered  men  ! 
Not  unavenged  you  rest  to-day  for  all  you  suffered 

then  ! 
Your  savage  foes  are  silent  now  ;  these  stains  upon 

the  snow 
Are  red  as  those  beside  your  doors  a  few  short  weeks 

ago! 

******* 

Where  thus  the  white  and  red  man  strove,  some 

thirty  years  ago, 
The  stains  no  more  make  red  the  soil,  and  greenest 

grasses  grow ; 


26        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

And  happy  homes  where  roses  twine  and  children 

laugh  and  play 
Have  filled  with  peace  the  vast  frontiers  since  that 

eventful  day. 

No  more  the  war-paint  redly  glows  upon  the  war 
rior's  face  ; 

No  more  the  war-dance  reels  and  roars  through  all 
a  savage  race  ; 

No  more  the  bands  of  mounted  braves  in  haste  and 
hurry  ride 

To  murder  men  and  ply  the  torch,  through  all  the 
borders  wide. 

No  more  red  hands  and  redder  hearts  have  king 
doms  for  their  reigns  ; 

No  more  the  war-whoops  roll  and  ring  across  the 
desert  plains  ; 

No  more  the  war-drums  send  abroad  their  doleful 
melody, 

Since  Custer  led  his  gallant  men, — the  Seventh 
Cavalry  ! 

There  are  battles  by  populous  cities  and  battles  where 

business  roars  j 
There  are  battles  in  song-famous  valleys  and  battles 

on  ballad-sung  shores; 
But  the  battles  that  conquered  the  prairies  and  laid  the 

red  devils  to  rest 
Are  the  battles  of  bounty  and  blessing  that  live  in  the 

lives  of  the  West ! 


THE  PLAINT  OF  THE  TENDERFOOT. 

J~\OWN  along  the  Cimarron  where  the  currents 
~^^^         twine, 

There  I  met  an  immigrant  in  eighteen  eighty-nine  ; 
He  was  all  alone  and  his  heart  was  stone, — he  had 

gathered  bitter  fruit, 

And  his  hoarse  voice  rang  as  he  sadly  sang  the  Plaint 
of  the  Tenderfoot : 

From  Indiana  it  was  1  came,  some  seventeen  days 

ago, 
To  find  me  a  farm  in  the  "  Beautiful  Land  "  that  the 

boomers  have  tried  to  blow  ; 
And  in  those  few  days  I  have  lived  more  ways  than 

the  brutes  of  the  jungles  do  ; 
I  have  seen  more  things  than  a  bird  with  wings  could 

flutter  or  fly  up  through  ; 
And  if  ever  I  do  get  home  again,  though  bacon  and 

bread  be  slack, 
I  '11  be  content  with  a  bit  of  both,  and  a  clean  shirt 

to  my  back. 

I  have  learned  some  things  that  are  valuable  ;  it  is 

now  quite  plain  to  me 
This  opening  up  new  lands  to  the  world  is  n't  what 

it  is  said  to  be  ; 

27 


28        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

With  the  "  sooner  "  before  and  the  "  sooner  "  behind, 

the  honest  man  has  no  chance  ; 
They  '11  gobble  his  claim  and  blacken  his  name  and 

take  every  cent  in  his  pants  : 
And  if  ever  I  do  get  home  again,  no  matter  how 

much  I  lack, 
I  '11  be  content  with  an  empty  purse,  and  a  clean 

shirt  to  my  back. 

I  stopped  at  Arkansas  City,  and  bought  me  a  horse 

and  cart ; 
I  crossed  the  Strip  in  elegant  style,  with  a  high  and 

hopeful  heart ; 
And  "  overland  fish  "  was  all  my  grub,  and  my  drink 

was  the  water  white 
Which    rose   in   the  tracks  that  the  cattle  made, 

through  the  dews  of  the  chilly  night ; 
And  if  ever  I  do  get  home  again,  they  may  call  me 

white  or  black, 
But  I  '11  be  content  with  an  oat-straw  bed,  and  a 

clean  shirt  to  my  back. 

I  travelled  a  hundred  miles,  I  think,  and  I  slept  on 
the  ground,  I  know  ; 

I  never  have  washed  or  shaved  my  face  since  fifteen 
days  ago  ; 

For  the  wild  wolves  howled  and  ran  them  round  in 
the  most  alarming  curves, 

And  I  am  not  used  to  that  sort  of  thing, — it  is  wear 
ing  on  my  nerves  ! 


iplaint  of  tbe  tTen&crfoot.  29 

And  if  ever  I  do  get  home  again,  I  may  fall  into 

wrong  and  rack, 
But  I  '11  be  content  with  a  quiet  place,  and  a  clean 

shirt  to  my  back. 

I  ran  a  race  for  a  dozen  miles, — a  wild  and  a  reck 
less  race, — 

That  far  surpassed  Dick  Turpin's  ride  or  a  London 
steeple-chase  ; 

And  when  I  stopped,  not  a  single  soul, — not  a  thing 
was  there  in  sight, — 

But  a  vast  amount  of  the  meanest  land  that  ever 
lay  out  at  night ; 

And  if  ever  I  do  get  home  again,  I  '11  stay  in  the 
beaten  track, 

And  be  content  with  a  good  clean  face,  and  a  clean 
shirt  to  my  back. 

But  in  half  an  hour  on  that  very  claim  there  were 

six  men  holding  it, 
(I  never  [hold  out  for  a  swine  myself  and  I  know 

when  it 's  time  to  quit ;) 
So  I  sold  my  right  for  a  paltry  five,  and  had  given 

the  buyer  ten 
To  take?therquarter  and  let  me  go  and  live  in  the 

world  again'; 
And  if  ever  I  do  get  home  again,  no  matter  how 

small  my  pack, 
I  '11  be  content  with  a  good  whole  skin,  and  a  clean 

shirt  to  my  back. 


30        Songs  from  tbe  Southwest  Country. 

I  never  was  used  to  rifles  much  and  pistols  take  my 

sand, 
And  the  boomers  that  love  this  soil  so  much  have 

one  or  the  other  at  hand  ; 
And  grub  's  too  dear  for  a  man  out  here,  and  if  I 

should  the  State  receive, 
I  never  would  stay  but  would  up  and  away,  as  soon 

as  I  ever  could  leave  ; 
And  if  ever  I  do  get  home  again,  I  '11  sail  on  a  safer 

tack, 
And  be  content  with  the  breath  of  life,  and  a  clean 

shirt  to  my  back. 

I  've  driven  that  horse  on  water  and  grass  some 

thousands  of  miles,  I  know  ; 
I  Ve  shivered  with  cold  and  thirsted  for  drink  and 

famished  for  eatables  so  ! 
But  you  never  can  see  what  a  fool  you  can  be  till 

you  turn  yourself  over  and  try, 
And  you  cannot  be  sure  what  a  broncho  '11  endure 

from  the  pauper-born  look  of  his  eye  ; 
And  if  ever  I  do  get  home  again,  then  death  to  the 

boomer's  clack ! 
For  I  '11  be  content  with  my  hair  slicked  up,  and  a 

clean  shirt  to  my  back. 

Here  's  the  horse  and  cart  and  the  love  of  my  heart 

to  whoever  will  ship  me  home  ; 
Should  I  live  as  long  as  Methuselah  did,  I  never 

again  will  roam  ; 


Gbe  plaint  of  tbe  aen&erfoot.  31 

I  '11  return  elate  to  the  Hoosier  State, — it  is  far  too 

good  for  me  ! 
This  opening  up  new  lands  to  the  world  is  n't  what 

it  is  said  to  be  ; 
And  if  ever  I  do  get  home  again,  I  '11  stay  till  the 

earth  shall  crack, 
And  be  content  with  a  six-foot-two,  and  a  clean  shirt 

to  my  back  ! 

Down  along  the  Cimarron,  where  the  currents  twine, 
There  I  met  an  immigrant  in  eighteen  eighty-nine  ; 
He  was  all  alone  and  his  heart  was  stone, — he  had 

gathered  bitter  fruit, 
And  his  hoarse  voice  rang  as  he  sadly  sang  this  Plaint 

of  the  Tenderfoot ! 


SLAUGHTERING  THE  PONIES. 

(After  the  battle  of  the  Washita,  eight  hundred  Indian 
ponies,  which  had  been  captured,  were  shot  under  General 
Custer's  order,  to  prevent  their  re-capture  by  the  Indians  from 
whom  they  had  been  taken.) 

Battle  is  Battle  and  War  is  War  j 
Soldiers  must  do  what  their  swords  abhor  ; 
And  he  who  wins  in  the  fierce  assails 
Suffers  and  sins,  like  the  one  who  fails. 

"  Round  up  the  horses,  troopers  ;  we  march  at  early 

dawn  ; 
Round  up  the  horses  quickly, — the  forage  all  is 

gone; 
And  take  the  Indian  ponies, — eight  hundred,  so 

you  say, — 
And  shoot  them  in  the  valley  about  the  break  of 

day." 

The  battle  all  is  over  ;  the  warriors  far  have  fled, 
Save  something  like  a  hundred  braves  that  slumber 

stark  and  dead  ; 
The  captured  squaw  and  papoose  are  under  guard, 

to  be 

The  trophies  of  the  victors, — the  Seventh  Cavalry. 
32 


Slaughtering  tbe  ponies.  33 

It  is  a.  hundred  miles  or  more  ere  they  can  reach 

again 
The  quarters  full  of  forage  for  jaded  beasts  and 

men  ; 
The  savages  are  everywhere  ;  a  few  short  hours, 

and  they 
Will  ambush  all  the  narrow  trails  and  challenge  to 

the  fray. 

The  captives  must  be  guarded,  too,  and  all  must 
march  in  haste  ; 

With  famine  fourteen  hours  ahead,  there  is  no  time 
to  waste  ; 

'T  were  folly  deep  the  spoils  to  keep  while  facing 
such  a  foe, 

For,  thus  encumbered,  all  would  die,  while  march 
ing  through  the  snow. 

"  Round  up  the  horses,  troopers  ;  the  forage  all  is 

gone  ; 
And,  sergeant,  take  the  ponies  and  slaughter  them 

at  dawn  ; 
Eight  hundred   Indian  ponies  once  dead,  and  we 

shall  find 
Our  enemies  dismounted  a  hundred  miles  behind  !  " 

****** 

The  bugle  wakes  the  sleepers  ;  the  east  is  purple 

quite, 
And  "  Boots   and   Saddles "  rouses   the   camp   at 

morning  light  ; 


34         Songs  trom  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

'T  is  time  that  all  were  moving  ;  the  rations  are  so 

small 
The  soldiers  and  the  captives  can  hardly  eat  at  all. 

It 's  back  to  Old  Cantonment  they  go  with  horse 

and  men  ; 

It 's  back  to  hear  the  praises  of  warlike  Sheridan  ; 
It 's  back  from  all  their  hardships,  with  rest  and 

victory 
Upon  the  famous  banners  of  the  Seventh  Cavalry  ! 

"  Forward  !  "  the  order  echoes  ;  and  forward  up  the 

hill, 
The  soldiers  and  their  captives  move  swiftly  with  a 

will  ; 
For  well  the  weary  troopers  with   eager  longings 

know 
That  cozy  barracks  warm  and  snug  are  just  across 

the  snow. 

They  march  in  silence  forward  ;  hark  !    Through 

the  valley  runs 

The  rolling  roar  of  firing  from  half  a  hundred  guns  ; 
The  horses  leap  in  terror  ;  a  soldier  mutters  low, 
"  They  're  killing  off  the  ponies  we  captured  from 

the  foe  !  " 

Yet  fainter  grows  the  firing,  and  fainter,  fainter  still, 
Till  single  shots  alone  are  heard  across  the  wooded 
hill; 


Slaugbtering  tbe  ponies.  35 

Then  silence  falls  behind  them,  and  all  the  troopers 

know 
Eight  hundred  Indian  ponies  are  dead  upon   the 

snow  ! 

Upon  a  swinging  gallop  the  troop  belated  comes 
And  joins  the  marching  columns,  bjit  silent  are  the 

drums  ; 
And  as  they  swing  in  squadron  each  trooper's  eyes 

are  dim, 
Because  some  helpless  pony  received  a  shot  from 

him  ! 

Excusable  ?     Assuredly  !     No  censure  dare  befall! 
To  win  excuses  everything  ;  't  is  failing  blames  it 

all! 
They  won  ;    they  won   it  bravely  ;    who  dares  to 

question  aught 
Of  all  the  mighty  deeds  they  did,  when  once  the 

deeds  are  wrought  ? 

These  piles  of  bones,  you  ask  me  ?      These  piles  of 

bones  they  made 

That  cold  November  morning  at  War's  heroic  trade, 
When    Custer   slaughtered    quickly   here    in    the 

drifted  snow 
Eight  hundred  Indian  ponies,  some  thirty  years  ago  ! 

Battle  is  Battle  and  War  is  War; 
Soldiers  must  do  what  their  swords  abhor; 
And  he  who  wins  in  the  fierce  assails 
Suffers  and  sins,  like  the  one  who  fails  ! 


T 


DAVID   L.  PAYNE. 

IS  he  that  finds 

New  hopes  for  human  grieving, 
New  homes  for  men  and  women,  who  is  great ; 

He  frees  their  minds, 
He  conquers  their  bereaving, 
And  leads  them  forth,— the  builders  of  the  state. 

Not  he  that  fills 

The  world  with  blood  and  battle 
Is  most  the  hero,  though  he  win  a  crown  ; 

The  brute  that  kills 
Is  worse  than  brutal  cattle 
That  blindly  crush  their  weaker  fellows  down. 

Though  wars  may  rage, 
In  bread,  not  blood,  is  glory, — 
The  plow  is  more  exalted  than  the  sword  ; 

Who  tells  his  age 
Advancement's  mighty  story 
Thrills  all  the  future  with  each  potent  word. 

And  such  was  Payne  : 
His  country's  battles  over, 

He  stormed  the  desert, — bade  the  thousands  come 
36 


2>aviD  H.  ipagnc.  37 


Of  wood  and  plain 
He  made  himself  a  rover, 
Homeless  to  win  the  homeless  hosts  a  home. 

A  new  Crusade 
He  preached,  a  second  Hermit, 
A  savage  land  from  wildness  to  redeem  ; 

He  slowly  made, 
Whatever  fools  may  term  it, 
A  mighty  force  that  realized  his  dream. 

He  first  conceived 
A  homeless  people  making 
Glad  homes  of  plenty  where  the  coyotes  ran  ; 

He  first  believed 
This  hidden  land,  forsaking 
Its  desert  ways,  would  leap  the  thrones  of  man. 

He  broke  no  law, 
And  yet  the  law's  defenders 
Upon  his  guiltless  head  their  vengeance  poured  ; 

The  lion's  paw 
That  only  helpless  renders 
Tossed  him,  poor  victim,  and  the  lion  roared  ! 

And  foolish  men, 
Both  civilized  and  savage, 
Swore  he  was  wrong,  and  cursed  with  venom  white  ; 

They  called  him  then 
An  outlaw,  born  for  ravage, 
A  bandit  chief,  and  locked  him  from  the  light. 


38        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

The  soldiers  came 
And  led  him  forth  in  fetters, — 
A  free  man  chained  in  Freedom's  nooning  time  ; 

The  prison  shame, 
The  dungeon  damp,  in  letters 
Burning  with  blackness,  branded  him  with  crime. 

Yet  forth  he  walked, 
Defying  force  and  faction, 
A  martyr  scourged  and  beaten  for  his  cause  ; 

And  as  he  talked, 
Demanding  onward  action, 
He  shamed  the  people  for  their  shameful  laws. 

His  ardent  hopes, 
Like  some  divine  aroma, 
Pervaded  all  the  globe  with  sweet  perfume  ; 

And  o'er  the  slopes 
Advanced  young  Oklahoma, 
His  child  of  light,  to  make  the  desert  bloom. 

This  be  his  fame  : 
The  prison  cell  defying, 
He  led  mankind  where  bayonets  blocked  the  way 

So  shall  his  name 
In  hearts  of  love  undying 
Live  through  the  ages  to  the  farthest  day. 

For  those  that  lead, 
Despising  death  and  danger, 
The  ages  build  Fame's  restless  telegraph  ; 


2>avt£>  X.  pagnc.  39 

He  led,  indeed  ; 
And  for  the  careless  stranger 
Who  knew  him  not,  this  be  his  epitaph  : 

He  dreamed  and  wrought, 
And  dreaming  wrought  unceasing 
To  shape  his  dreams  and  fill  them  to  the  full  ; 

He  dreamed  and  thought 
Of  mighty  States  increasing, 
And  gave  his  life  to  make  them  possible! 


KANSAS. 

C  HE  felt,  they  say, 
^     The  battle-storms  of  earth, 
The  cannons  cradled  her, 
The  war-drums  beat  fierce  lullabies 

At  her  wild  birth  ; 
Yet  she  in  danger  found  a  paradise, 
And  bowed, — its  worshipper  ! 


'T  was  thus  she  roused 
The  multitudes  to  arms, 
And  made  the  nations  feel 
The  precepts  they  had  taught  and  talked 

Of  hurts  and  harms  ; 

Until  God  came  and  led  her,  and  she  walked 
The  child  of  sword  and  steel. 


40        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

What  though  she  loves 
The  Novel  and  the  New  ? 
What  though  she  sometimes  fall 
When  scaling  heights  of  sky  and  star 

To  find  the  True  ? 

For  him  that  strives,  God's  angels  shall  unbar 
The  gates  of  all  in  all  ! 

What  though  her  wounds 
Be  many  and  severe  ? 
What  though  her  shoulder  bend 
Beneath  the  crushing  loads 

She  does  not  fear  ? 
Travel  is  easy  in  the  beaten  roads, — 
Ease  has  no  worthy  end. 

Though  bruises  come, 
The  brave  pursue  the  quest  ; 
Though  failure  and  defeat 
Their  harsh,  ignoble  measures  sing, 

To  strive  is  best  ; 

To  sloth  the  Fates  no  crowns  of  laurel  bring, 
And  conquering  is  sweet. 

Who  never  strives 
Forever  falls  and  fails 
Where  Terror  sways  her  hosts 
And  Force  with  all  the  fraud  of  greeds 

Makes  fierce  assails  ; 
'T  is  only  he  that  battles  on  and  bleeds 
Deserves  his  boasts. 


TRansas.  41 

She  seeks  the  New, — 
She  loves  its  laughing  youth  ; 
She  leaves  the  Old,  as  fear 
Forsakes  the  ways  of  pestilence  ; 

And  for  the  truth, 

Warm  in  the  heart  of  high  Omnipotence, 
She  struggles  year  by  year. 

Her  heart,  her  hope, 
Is  boundless  as  her  plains  ; 
She  walks  the  starry  ways, 
She  leaps  the  vale  and  mountain-side, 

For  endless  gains  ; 

Her  faith  haunts  all  the  far  horizons  wide 
With  voice  of  prayer  and  praise  ! 

4 

And  so  to  thee, 
O  Kansas,  unto  thee, 
Proud  child  of  tale  and  song, 
Whom  brave  men  filled  with  hope  and  health, 

Let  blessings  be  ! 

Thou  hast  the  soul  of  empires,  commonwealth 
Whose  infancy  was  strong  ! 

Free  blood  fast  bounds 
Along  the  sleepy  veins 
At  mention  of  thy  name  ; 
Thine  eyes  are  on  the  future,  great 

With  wondrous  gains  ; 
Such  be  thy  glory,  and  the  years  elate 
Shall  justify  thy  fame  ! 


THE    STAMPEDE. 

\\T  E  took  our  turn  at  the  guard  that  night,  just 

*  *  Sour-dough  Charlie  and  I, 

And  as  we  mounted  our  ponies,  there  were  clouds 

in  the  western  sky  ; 
And  we  knew  that  before  the  morning  the  storm  by 

the  north  wind  stirred 
Would  scourge  the  plains  with  its  furies  fierce  and 

madden  the  savage  herd  ; 
But  we  did  not  shrink  the  danger  ;  we  had  ridden 

the  plains  for  years, — 
The  crash  of  the  storm  and  the  cattle's  cry  were 

music  in  our  ears. 

We  drove  the  herd  to  a  circle  ;  for  the  winds  were 

calm,  and  we  knew 
That  somewhere   near  to  the  midnight  shift  the 

storm-fiends  would  be  due  ; 
We  rode  the  rounds  unceasingly,  and  we  worked 

with  an  anxious  will 
Until  the  cattle  were  lying  down  and  the  mighty 

herd  was  still, 
And   only  the   musical  breathing   of  the   bedded 

beasts  arose 
As  we  rounded  the  living  circle  and  guarded  their 

light  repose. 

42 


Ube  Stampede.  43 

Then  the  storm  came  on  in  anger  ;  the  winds  of  a 
sudden  turned, 

The  lightnings  flamed  through  the  seething  skies, 
and  the  prairies  blazed  and  burned  ; 

The  thunders  rolled  like  an  avalanche,  and  they 
shook  the  rocking  world, 

That  trembling  quaked  as  the  storm  so  wild  its  ban 
ners  of  blaze  unfurled  ; 

The  fires  flew  over  the  frightened  herd  and  leaped 
from  horn  to  horn 

Till  horrible  clamors  rose  and  fell  in  chaos  of  fear 
forlorn. 

The  herd  awoke  in  a  minute  ;  but  we  rode  through 

the  flashing  ways 
And  sang  with  a  will  the  olden  songs  we  learned  in 

our  childhood  days  ; 
The  human  voice  has  a  wondrous  power,  and  the 

wildest  beast  that  moans 
Forgets  its  fear  in  a  dream  of  peace  at  the  sound  of 

its  tender  tones  : 
And  on  through  the  blinding  flashes  and  on  through 

the  dark  and  the  light, 
We  rode  with  the  old  songs  ringing,  and  we  prayed 

for  the  death  of  night. 

I  never  could  tell  how  it  happened  ;  there  came  a 

tremendous  crash, 
A  wolf  jumped  out  of  the  chaparral, — and  the  herd 

was  off  in  a  flash  ! 
And  Charlie  was  riding  before  them  ;  then  I  saw 

him  draw  his  gun 


44        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbweet  Country. 

And  fire  at  the  plunging  leaders,  till  he  turned  them 

one  by  one ; 
Then  the  darkness  fell, — I  could  not  see, — and  then 

in  the  blinding  light 
My  pard  went  down,  and  the  maddened  herd  swept 

on  through  the  savage  night  ! 

Him  I  found  where  the  cattle  rushed  in  the  wild  of 

their  wandering, 
Broken  and  beaten  by  scores  of  hoofs,  a  crushed  and 

a  mangled  thing  ! 
And  his  pony  lay  with  a  broken  leg,  as  dead  as  a 

rotten  log, 
Where  its  foot  had  slipped  in  the  hidden  hole  of  a 

worthless  prairie-dog. 
We  buried  him  there — you  can  see  the  stones — and 

whether  we  die  or  live, 
We  gave  him  the  best  of  a  funeral  that  a  cowboy 

camp  can  give. 

His  name  ?     It  was  Sour-dough  Charlie,  sir  ;  and 

whether  a  good  or  bad, 
We  called  him  that  for  a  score  of  years — it  was  all 

the  name  he  had  ! 
I  found  a  locket  above  his  heart,  with  a  picture 

there  of  grace 
That  showed  a  girl  with  a  curly  head  and  a  most 

uncommon  face  ; 
Hero,  you  say  ?     Well,  maybe  so  ;  for  I  know  it  is 

oft  confessed 
That  he  's  the  kind  of  a  man  it  takes  for  the  work 

here  in  the  West. 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  SETTLER. 

"INHERE  are  songs  for  the  valiant  soldier 

-*•       Who  fights  for  his  native  shore 
And  carries  her  dauntless  banners 

On  a  hundred  fields  or  more  ; 
There  are  songs  for  the  gallant  sailor 

Who  conquers  the  crested  foam, — 
Then  a  song  for  the  prairie  settler, — 

The  man  in  the  dug-out  home  ! 


He  battles  the  boundless  prairies, 

He  sabres  the  savage  soil, 
He  masters  the  foes  that  face  him, 

With  the  might  of  his  tireless  toil  ; 
The  plow  is  the  flashing  weapon 

That  slaughters  the  sodden  loam, 
And  over  them  all  he  triumphs, — 

The  man  in  the  dug-out  home. 

What  matters  the  howling  blizzard, 
The  hot  winds  and  the  heat  ? 

Through  summer  and  winter  he  marches 
With  the  tread  of  victorious  feet  ; 

45 


46        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

He  turns  the  sod  and  he  sows  it, — 

He  reaps,  whatever  may  come, 
And  Plenty  crowns  with  her  blessedness 

The  man  in  the  dug-out  home. 

He  toils,  and  the  barren  desert, 

Forgetting  its  former  days, 
Transforms  itself  to  a  garden, 

With  a  garden's  wondrous  ways  ; 
And  contentment  fills  his  bosom 

While  morning  and  evening  gloam, — 
He  's  a  king  that  owns  his  kingdom, — 

The  man  in  the  dug-out  home  ! 

His  coming  is  swift  and  silent  ; 

He  carries  no  sounding  drum, 
But  the  savage  hosts  of  the  desert  flee 

Whenever  his  legions  come  ; 
He  conquers  the  untamed  prairies, 

He  masters  the  stubborn  land, 
Till  towns  and  cities  and  commonwealths 

Arise  at  his  regal  hand. 

O  man  in  the  prairie  dug-out, 

Your  peaceful  arts  are  best, 
You  have  made  new  homes  for  the  hopes  of  men, 

You  have  built  the  wondrous  West ; 
And  all  that  it  holds  exalted, 

And  all  that  it  prizes  true, 
Would  never  have  been  without  the  toil 

Of  a  hero  such  as  you  ! 


Xines  on  Captain  pagne'a  Cabin.          47 

Then  a  song  for  the  valiant  settler, 

And  a  song  for  his  humble  home  ! 
For  the  valleys  laugh  and  the  prairies  bloom 

Wherever  his  feet  may  roam  ! 
He  scatters  the  countless  blessings 

That  never  their  bounties  cease, 
This  man  that  is  more  than  hero 

In  his  dug-out  home  of  peace  ! 


LINES  ON  CAPTAIN  PAYNE'S  CABIN. 

'1 1  WITHIN  this  humble  cabin  dwelt 

*  •        A  man  who  mankind's  longing  felt  ; 
Who  bravely  strove  and  proudly  wrought 
To  fill  his  one  heroic  thought ; 
Who,  seeking  homes  for  thousands,  made 
His  bold  incursions  unrepaid, 
Though  this,  his  castle,  rose  to  bless 
With  peace  the  savage  wilderness, 
A  light  that  saw,  as  once  did  he, 
The  mighty  commonwealths  to  be. 

His  was  the  mind  that  dared  receive 

What  others  only  half  believe  ; 

His  was  the  heart  that  knew  the  need 

And  dared  the  homeless  hundreds  lead  ; 

His  were  the  feet  that  dared  to  stand 

Undaunted  in  the  savage  land  ; 

And  his  the  hands  that  crowned  his  plan, 

And  gave  the  desert  back  to  man. 


48        Songs  from  tbc  Soutbwest  Country. 

These  are  his  meeds  :  Homes  fill  the  plains 
Where  he,  a  martyr,  walked  in  chains, 
And  every  prison  where  he  came 
Is  holy  with  his  holy  fame  ; 
The  vales  with  towns  are  thicker  set 
Than  once  with  sword  and  bayonet, 
And  every  place  where  once  he  stood 
Proclaims  the  glories  of  his  good. 

He  dared  ;  he  did  ;  and  thus  "t  is  so 
He  reaps  rewards  that  heroes  know  : 
A  name  that  grateful  people  crown 
With  lofty  praise  and  high  renown  ; 
For  kindly  Heaven  to  him  sent 
A  commonwealth  for  monument ; 
Undying,  unforgotten,  then, 
While  lives  a  loving  race  of  men  ! 


MOUNTAIN  SONG. 

A  WAY  to  the  mountains,  away,  away  ! 
•**•     Beyond  the  desolate  plains  that  rise 
From  hollow  vales  where  the  rivers  play, 

To  the  snowy  summits  that  reach  the  skies  ! 
The  treasures  of  gold  for  our  coming  wait 

Beyond  the  desert  so  grim  and  gray  ; 
Then  a  sigh  and  a  tear  for  the  loved  ones  here, 

And  away  to  the  mountains,  away,  away  ! 


44  mben  tbe  <5olDen*1Ro£>  is  fellow."        49 

Away  to  the  mountains,  away,  away  ! 

Their  giant  veins  with  a  golden  flood 
Throb  ever,  forever,  and  riot  gay 

With  regal  riches  of  royal  blood  ; 
The  odorous  pines  with  their  balmy  breath 

Shall  waft  us  a  welcome,  for  aye,  for  aye  ; 
Then  a  tear  and  a  sigh  and  a  tender  good-bye, 

And  away  to  the  mountains,  away,  away  ! 

Away  to  the  mountains,  away,  away  ! 

To  dig  and  delve  at  their  heart's  rich  core, 
To  cut  and  carve  where  the  treasures  stay, 

And  stain  our  hands  with  their  yellow  gore  ; 
And  after  the  moments  of  toil  and  care, 

We  shall  be  happy  as  Spring's  bright  day  ; 
Then  a  sigh  and  a  kiss  for  the  ones  we  shall  miss, 

And  away  to  the  mountains,  away,  away  ! 


"WHEN  THE  GOLDEN- ROD  IS  YELLOW." 


T^REAMY  haze  of  languor  fills 
^-^     All  the  smoky  valleys  tender, 
And  above  the  haloed  hills 

Hangs  the  Summer's  golden  splendor  ; 
Fields  are  rich  with  ripened  grain, 

Orchards  bend  with  fruitage  mellow, 
Plenty  rules  the  boundless  plain, — 

When  the  golden-rod  is  yellow. 


50        Songs  from  tbe  Southwest  Country. 

Spring,  so  young  and  debonair, 

Fell  before  the  mighty  Summer, 
And  old  Winter,  worn  with  care, 

Overthrows  the  Autumn  comer  ; 
Gladness  heaps  the  hearts  of  need, 

All  are  kings  and  none  the  fellow, 
And  the  world  is  bright  indeed, 

When  the  golden-rod  is  yellow. 

Let  contentment  rule  the  board, 

Sing  the  songs  that  banish  sadness  ; 
Nature  brings  the  bounties  stored 

When  the  days  were  full  of  gladness  ; 
Happiness  shall  lift  her  voice 

When  the  tempests  rage  and  bellow, 
For  the  sons  of  men  rejoice 

When  the  golden-rod  is  yellow. 

ON  THE  SHANKY-TANK. 

THE  shady  Shanky-tank  !    There  the  willows 

rich  and  rank 
Bend  their  happy  heads  together  o'er  the  water's 

dimpled  face, 

And  with  arms  of  gladdest  glee  clasp  in  royal  revelry 
All  the  winsome,  winding  river  in  a  rapturous  em 
brace  ! 

Evermore  a  chorus  swells  from  the  tinkle  of  the 

bells 

Where  the  cows  a-lowing  loiter  in  the  meadows 
on  the  bank, 


On  tbe  5banfcg*aanfc.  51 

And  a  boyish  whistle  throws  all  the  music  heaven 

knows 

From  the  birds  that  warble  ever  up  and  down  the 
Shanky-tank. 

Days  of  laughter  live  again  through  the  yearning 

years  of  men, 
And  I  blithely  bend  unwearied   o'er  the  water 

waves  below, 
Underneath  the  sycamore,  just  as  in  the  hours  of 

yore, 

And  the  fishes  bite  forever  through  the  vanished 
Long  Ago. 

Or  secure  in  cool  retreat  from  Midsummer's  burning 

heat, 
Poised  above  the  placid  waters  in  the  shadows 

deep  and  dim, 

There  I  plunge  with  sudden  spring,  claiming  Nep 
tune  for  my  king, 

And,  a  fondly  fearless  merman,  pass  a  pleasant 
hour  with  him. 

Oh,  my  feet  unwearied  are,  though  I  wander  fast  and 

far 
Where  the  angels  romped  with  boyhood  through 

each  happy  quip  and  prank, 
And  again  my  longings  dine  from  the  tables  spread 

so  fine 

With  ambrosial  foods  and  nectars  on  the  shady 
Shanky-tank  ! 


52        Sonfls  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 
OKLAHOMA. 

T  T  ERE  through  the  ages  old  the  desert  slept 
*•  •*•  In  solitudes  unbroken,  save  when  passed 
The  bison  herds,  and  savage  hunters  swept 

In  thundering  chaos  down  the  valleys  vast ; 
But  lo  !  across  the  desert  margins  stepped 
Progression's  mighty  legions,  and  one  blast 
From  her  transforming  trumpet  filled  the  last 
Lone  covert  where  affrighted  wildness  crept. 

Full  armed  and  armored  at  her  wondrous  birth, 
Her   shining   temples    wreathed   with    gorgeous 
dower, 

She  sits  among  the  empires  of  the  earth  ; 

Her  proud  achievements  o'er  the  nations  tower, 

Won  by  her  people  with  their  royal  worth 
Of  lofty  culture,  wisdom,  wealth,  and  power  ! 


THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

T^HIS  mighty  stream  that  types  a  people  free, 
-*•       Upon  whose  breast  the  argosies  of  pride 
And  all  the  navies  of  the  nations  ride, 

Sings  evermore  exalted  songs  to  me  ; 

The  margins  tall  breathe  hymns  of  majesty, 
And  every  eddy  of  the  onward  tide, 
An  orchestra,  quires  endless  music  wide, 

And  full  of  peace,  and  tender  as  the  sea. 


plains.  53 

A  thousand  cities  by  thee  burn  and  blaze, 

Vast  commonwealths  beside  thee  sentry  keep, 
And  empires  o'er  thee  clasp  their  guarding 

hands ; 

Yet  my  full  heart  hears  anguish  in  thy  lays  : 
Old  mountain  mem'ries  in  their  dirges  weep 
And,  in  their  ditties,  sigh  for  unseen  lands  ! 


THE    PLAINS. 

."  I  ^HEY  called  them  "  Deserts  "  once;  but  like  a  sea 
•*•       The  tides  of  life  with  leaping  currents  warm 
Swept  in  the  countless  millions,  swarm  on  swarm, 
And  covered  all  their  vast  immensity  ; 
The  wildness  changed  to  bounties  for  the  free, 
And  man's  firm    hand  tamed   there  the   savage 

storm, 

And  slowly  sure  came  rounding  into  form 
The  giant  limbs  of  commonwealths  to  be. 


These  prairies  teem  with  plenty  ;  these  high  streams 
Roll  rich,  unmeasured  lengths  of  waters  down  ; 

And  cities  are  beside  them,  whose  fair  dreams 
With  stately  splendor  every  hilltop  crown  ; 

Each  valley  smiles  with  gladness,  and  it  seems 
The  desert  has  forgotten  how  to  frown. 


54        Songe  trom  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 
BY  THE  OVERLAND  TRAIL. 


was  the  path  of  empire.     Fifty  years 
-*•       Have  hung  their  halos  where  heroic  rolled 
The  white-topped  wagons  of  the  pioneers 

Who  walked  the  desert  ways  for  dreams  of  gold. 
How  gaunt  and  ghastly  spread  the  far  frontiers 
With  care  and  carnage  for  the  pale-face  bold, 
When  savage  legions  with  embattled  spears 
Brought  death  and  danger  to  the  days  of  old  ! 

Here  crossed  the  prairies  toward  the  Golden  Gates 
The  fathers,  founders  of  the  newer  West  ; 
They  conquered  kingdoms  in  their  mighty  quest, 

And  sowed  the  seeds  of  cities,  towns,  and  states  ; 
Lo,  by  their  prowess  is  the  present  blest, 

And  on  their  glory  all  the  future  waits  ! 


WHERE  CUSTER  FELL. 

HERE  Custer  fell !  The  nation  strows 
The  brightest  garlands  Honor  knows 
Upon  the  marbles  that  alway 
Mark  holy  mounds  of  yellow  clay, 
And  wreaths  of  glory  there  bestows. 

The  Little  Big  Horn  softly  goes 
Around  the  ridges,  and  it  flows 
With  sweeter  music  all  the  day 
Where  Custer  fell. 


Sunflower.  55 


For  him,  the  Matchless,  him  and  those 
Who  died  with  him  before  their  foes, 
Let  Grandeur  twine  her  laurels  gay, 
Let  Freedom  shout  their  fame  and  say 
"  Heroes  of  might  alone  repose 
Where  Custer  fell  !  " 


THE    COWBOY  POET. 

R  the  prairies  vast  of  created  things  roam 

the  steers  of  my  thoughts  in  herds, 
Where  I  round  them  up  for  the  branding-iron  and  I 

lariat  them  with  words  ; 
Then  away  to  the  great  corrals  of  books  do  I  drive 

the  unruly  throng, 

Till  the  world  appears  at  the  stock-yard  pens  and 
receives  them  there  in  song  ! 


THE   SUNFLOWER. 

T  N  pomp  this  princess  of  the  prairie  stands, 

A  crown  of  gold  upon  her  head  sublime  ; 

She  sways  her  sceptre  o'er  the  gorgeous  lands 

And  rules,  the  mistress  of  the  realms  of  time  ; 
But  from  her  eyes  no  glances  earthward  run  : 
She  gazing  worships  toward  her  god,  the  sun  ! 


SONNETS. 


57 


BOOKS. 

HPHESE  are  not  ink  and  paper  !    They  are  souls 

•••       That  strove  in  travail ;  they  are  lives  of  tears  ; 

The   brain-throbs   and  the    heart-beats  of   long 

years 

Writhe  in  dumb  agony  upon  these  scrolls  ! 
Here  smiles  the  Hope  that  like  an  ocean  rolls 
From  Deed  to  Duty  ;  here  weep  doubts  and  fears 
In  bosoms  tremulous  ;  here  Love  endears 
Disconsolate  toil  and  endless  hate  controls. 

Aye,  these  are  inspiration  !     In  the  low 

Sad  hours  of  weakness,  they  are  stores  of  might ; 

They  treasure  truths  eternal,  and  they  glow 

With  stars  brought  earthward  from  unmeasured 
Night ; 

Somewhat  of  God's  great  verities  they  know, 
Somewhat  of  Man's  far  future  and  its  light  ! 


THE    TEACHER. 

"DEHOLD  the  Priest  of  Knowledge!      On  the 

heights 

Where  vast  Omniscience  over-arching  broods, 
He  stands  with  Truth,  in  whose  infinitudes 
Blaze  the  swung  censers  and  the  altar  lights  ; 
59 


60        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

There  he,  beloved  of  Wisdom  and  her  rites, 
Receives  the  verities  and  endless  goods, 
The  graces  of  old  Nature's  wondrous  moods, 

And  all  the  stars  of  Glory's  happy  nights. 

Lo,  at  the  touching  of  his  finger-tips, 

Earth's    bended    millions   lose    their    burdened 
years, 

Unshackled  slaves  are  masters  of  their  fears, 
And  Fate  destroys  her  serpent-woven  whips  ; 

At  his  fond  whispers  men  forget  their  tears 
And  chant  the  songs  of  God's  Apocalypse  ! 

ON   THE   GREAT   PYRAMID. 

T  TERE  Time  uplifts  the  curtains  of  the  Past, 

**  •*•     And  shows  what  hides  behind  them.     Lo,   I 

stand 
Upon  the  gravestones  of  a  mighty  land 

Like  yonder  Sphinx,  unspeaking  to  the  last ! 

There  sweep  the  sacred  Nile's  great  waters  vast  ; 
There  Cairo  sits  ;  and  there  the  Libyan  sand 
Spreads  shadowless.     There  Goshen's  plains  ex 
pand, 

Where  Jacob  and  his  children  broke  their  fast ; 

There,  farther  on,  the  ancient  land  of  Ur, 

Whence  Abram  journeyed,  meets  the  rounded 
sky; 

Yon  heaps  of  rubbish  Memphis,  Ghizeh,  were, 
And  here  entombed  old  Egypt's  glories  lie 
Ghastly  and  silent,  though  the  world  comes  nigh 

And  stirs  the  dust  once  animate  in  her  ! 


Bt  "Kossetti's  (Brave.  61 

IN   A   PUBLIC   LIBRARY. 

'THHESE  walls  are  hero-haunted.     Prisoned  here 
Are  princes  of  enchantment.    King  and  sage, 
Great  knight  and  warrior  from  romantic  age, 
In  all  their  wealth  of  glorious  deeds  appear. 
The  mad  magician  and  the  saintly  seer, 

The    brave    and    great,   their   mighty   struggles 

wage  ; 

Fair  ladies  and  base  men  o'er  silent  page 
Move  on  forever  through  each  changing  year. 

Here  sleeps  the  fabled  and  here  lives  the  true  ; 
Who  kept  his  faith  and  who  that  faith  betrayed  ; 
The  heart  of  honor  and  the  soul  of  shame  ; 
The  worthless  censure  reap,  the  worthy,  fame  ; 
Some  bring  new  burdens,  some  their  fellows  aid, 
But  all  are  here,  O  child  of  joy,  for  you  ! 


AT  ROSSETTI'S  GRAVE. 

T  T  E  sleeps  in  sight  and  hearing  of  the  sea, 

Its  music  and  its  murmurs  ;  fondly  reach 
Incessant  voices  of  angelic  speech 

Across  his  grave  and  all  its  mystery. 

The  restless  waves  with  sounds  of  solemn  glee 
Beat  softly  on  the  Kentish  shores,  and  teach 
The  winds  that  linger  on  the  lonely  beach 

The  songs  of  his  exalted  melody. 


62        5on08  tcom  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Great  Art  he  served, — she  was  his  life  and  light ; 

Sweet  Music  sang, — she  was  his  happiness  ; 
Till  Glory  twined  his  royal  brows  with  might, 

And  Fame's  fond  chorus  lulled  his  soul's  dis 
tress  ; 

Then  Death,  God's  angel,  came  and  in  the  night, 
Soothed   him    to   slumber   with    Love's   kind 
caress. 


NEW  ENGLAND.   ' 

NO  common  history  hers.     Great  Freedom  filled 
Her  infant  nostrils  with  the  winds  of  power, 
Love  led  her  childish  feet,  and  Labor  thrilled 

Her  youthful  yearnings  into  fruited  flower  ; 
Then  commonwealths  and  cities  rose  that  hilled 
Her   matron    brows    with    Plenty's   gorgeous 

dower, 
And  Art's  imperial  armies,  service-skilled, 

Clothed  her  in  garbs  of  glory  hour  by  hour. 

Heroic  children  of  heroic  days 

Drank  virtue,  faith,  and  valor  from  thy  breast, 
Along  thy  hills  and  valleys,  brooks  and  bays  ; 

Then  crossing  prairie,  scaling  mountain  crest, 
They  roamed  the  deserts  and  the  lonely  ways, 

And  empires  reared  through  all  the  boundless 
West! 


flfctgbtiest.  63 

IMMUTABLE. 

not  thyself  because  the  world  and  thee 
May    stand    in    opposition.      What    though 

coarse 

Mob-hordes  of  error  hurl  invectives  hoarse 
And  surging  curse  and  threaten  like  a  sea  ? 
What  though  foul  serpents  dark  with  calumny 
Circle  their  horrid  folds,  and  evil  Force 
Chain  thy  poor  limbs  ?     Seek   Wisdom   at  her 

Source  : 
If  Truth  be  thy  companion,  thou  art  free  ! 

One  day  the  rabble  with  uncovered  head 
And  silent  face  shall  gather  at  thy  grave, 

Shall  heap  thy  tomb  with  Honor's  holy  bread 
For  all  the  stones  malignant  malice  gave  ; 

Lo,  there  the  world  remorseful  tears  shall  shed, 
And  crown  thee  master  whom  it  slew  a  slave  ' 


THE    MIGHTIEST. 

TV /TAN'S  Thought  is  greater  than  his  life.     His 
*•**•         soul 

Is  more  abiding  than  the  nimble  breath 
That  moves  his  lips  with  love's  divine  control 

And  leaves  them  voiceless  at  the  gates  of  death. 
Beyond  the  darkened  wayside  where  he  gropes 

In  mystic  shadows  for  the  paths  of  light, 


64        Songs  from  tbc  Soutbwest  Country. 

He  lives  enraptured  in  the  larger  hopes 

That  float  before  him  like  the  stars  of  night. 

Great  Thoughts,  like  drum-beats  in  the  battle,  come 
To  rouse  through  ages  all  the  hosts  of  earth, 

To  conquer  here  a  long  millennium, 
And  thrill  the  nations  into  newer  birth  ; 

Man's  life  is  measure  of  a  few  small  tears  ; 

His  Thought  is  endless  as  the  ceaseless  years  ! 


LILITH. 

]\ /["  EN  call  her  fair.     Madonna  brows  of  white 
IV  J.     \vith  midnight  hair  encircled  ;  childish  eyes 

Of  liquid  wonders  wide  ;  uncertain-wise 
Her  dimpled  cheeks  of  blossom.     Jewels  bright 
Flood  her  full  bosom  with  the  stars  of  night ; 

Soft  laces  billow  cloud-wreaths  of  the  skies  ; 

Her  slightest  footfalls  breathe  sweet  melodies, 
And  all  her  movements  echo  music  light. 

But,  Childhood,  be  thou  fearful !     Her  desires 
Burn  most  voluptuous  under  draperies  thin  ; 

Her  soul  of  guilty  lewdness  never  tires  ; 

Her  passions  ravage  all  the  hearts  they  win  ; 

Her  lips  are  crimson  with  the  scarlet  fires, 
And  eat  for  bread  the  wages  of  her  sin  ! 


preoccupies.  65 

ABSENT. 

T  STOOD  before  her  cottage  in  the  gloom 

A      And  knew  it  was  deserted.     Longings  came 

And  urged  my  drooping  lips  with  loud  acclaim 
To  summon  her  from  all  her  ways  of  bloom. 
Shut  doors  and  darkened  windows  !     O,  the  doom 

That  weights  the  heart  with  absence  of  a  name  ! 

I  stood  and  gazed  with  all  my  senses  lame 
Before  the  temple  of  her  silent  room  ! 

The  grasses  whispered,  "  She  shall  come  again  ! " 
The  roses  said,  "  She  's  coming,  coming  soon  !  " 
The  song-birds  cried,  "  For  us  she  longs  and 

longs  !  " 

For  me  alone  no  promise  waited  then, 
For  me  alone  the  world  was  out  of  tune, 
And  silent  then  were  all  its  happy  songs  ! 


PREOCCUPIED. 


A7"ES,  I  am  strange  at  times,  and  people  shake 
Their  sage  heads  wisely  at  my  empty  face, 

My  vacant  eyes  of  wonder,  and  they  place 
Their  fingers  to  their  foreheads.     Never  wake 
Their  narrow  souls  with  melodies  that  break 

In  glorious  music  from  the  fields  of  grace  ; 


66         Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

For  their  rude  gaze  no  sons  of  Heaven  make 
Such  wonders  as  my  yearnings  fondly  trace. 

They  nothing  know  of  where  my  soul  is  then, — 
My  rapt,  enraptured  soul,  which  eye  to  eye 

Meets  visions  that  are  seldom  seen  by  men, — 
My  soul  which  hears  God's  music  pipe  on  high, 

And  feeds  on  raptures  such  as  blossom  when 
The  child  of  time  walks  in  the  Bye  and  Bye. 


i 

A   DREAM. 

HPHIS  dream  is  sweet, — would  God  it  were  for 
•*•       aye  ! 

My  soul  is  clothed  with  freedom,  and  in  might 
Soars  upward  as  an  angel  of  delight, 

While  there  my  body  lies, — poor  piece  of  clay  ! 

Those  are  my  friends  yet  living.     What  they  say 
Sounds  on  my  quickened  senses.     Helpless  quite 
Am  I  to  greet  them  ;  but  these  hosts  in  white, — 

Ah,  these  are  friends  I  knew  but  yesterday  ! 

And  am  I  dead  ?  Nay,  nay,  but  living  !  Those 
Who  scatter  tears  upon  the  silent  face 

Of  that  still  body  are  the  dead  ones  !  Woes 
And  agonies  and  anguish  have  a  place 

In  all  the  years  they  wander,  but  the  rose 
Of  God's  eternal  pleasures  gives  me  grace  ! 


Co .  67 

TO   . 

T   COUNT  as  lost  the  years  I  knew  thee  not, — 

A      The  desert  years  that  longed  to  know  the  bloom 
Of  laughing  springs,  the  summers  of  perfume, 

And  fruited  autumns  in  each  barren  spot ; 

When  all  my  life,  with  fiercest  longings  hot, 
And  hopes  unsatisfied,  groped  in  the  gloom 
Of  perished  fancies,  and,  distract  with  doom, 

Faced  horribly  the  future's  horrid  lot. 

But  hope  smiles  upward  from  thy  laughing  lips, 
Love  miracles  the  trusting  of  thine  eyes, 

And  joy  leaps  at  the  touching  of  thy  hands  ; 
O,  wreathe  me  with  thy  rosy  finger-tips  ! 
For  life  seems  heaven  in  the  deep  surprise 
Of  knowing  one  who  sees  and  understands  ! 


TO 


T^HE  long,  dear  thoughts  of  thee  that  absence 

brings 

Are  sweet  and  sacred  ever  !     How  I  trace 
The  tender  fulness  of  thy  kindly  face 

Through  all  the  dreams  to  which  my  rapture  clings  ! 

And  from  thy  lips  of  happy  laughter  rings 
Incessant  music  whose  mysterious  grace 
Hides  in  my  heart  and  finds  a  dwelling-place 

Where  all  my  hope  with  fondest  fancy  sings  ! 


68         Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Fate  played  me  false  when  far  my  feet  she  drew 
From  thy  companionship,  and  led  me  past 

The  gladness  and  the  sunshine  leaping  there  ; 
And  still  to-day  with  evils  not  my  due 
My  life  from  thee  is  held  in  fetters  fast, 

And  countless  devils  mock  my  constant  prayer  ! 


THE  ONE  WHO   UNDERSTANDS. 

CHE   needs   no   language.     Hers   the   soul  that 
brings 

The  songs  of  gladness  for  the  sobbing  cries, 

The  smiles  of  rapture  to  the  tearful  eyes, 
And  all  the  grace  of  God's  angelic  things  ; 
Upon  her  lips  a  choir  cherubic  sings, 

And  from   her   hands   fall    Love's   divine    sup 
plies  ; 

Her  touch  is  eloquent  of  Paradise, 
And  every  motion  seems  a  throb  of  wings. 


What  sweet  contentment  fills  the  placid  place 
Where  calm  she  sits  with  silent  lips  and  hands 

And  holds  in  ecstasy  of  rapt  embrace 

The  heavy  heart-soul  with  her  sweet  commands  ! 

Methinks  that  heaven  blossoms  in  the  face 
Of  her  who  sees,  and,  seeing,  understands. 


Tflnforgettlng.  69 

SYMPATHY. 

A  S  some  great  flower  whose  imperial  bloom 
•**     Fills  all  the  desert  with  supreme  delight, 
And  pours  from  heart  of  glory  day  and  night 
The  laughing  streams  of  purified  perfume, 
Yet  dying  droops  and  withers  in  the  doom 

Hurled   fiercely   down    from    Noon's   relentless 

height, — 

So  shrank  my  life  in  conflict,  conquered  quite, 
Helpless  and  hopeless,  praying  for  the  tomb. 

But  one  there  came  with  kindness  in  her  eyes, 
And  on  her  lips  the  lessons  angels  teach  ; 
She  brought  me  dews  reviving,  rains  that  reach 
From  blessed  fountains  of  benignant  skies  : 
My  veins  throb  wines  of  valor,  and  I  rise 

Strong-armed,  stout-hearted,  at  her  tender  speech ! 


UNFORGETTING. 

A  S  these  pale  roses,  crushed  and  faded  so, 
**'     Dry  as  the  withered  stubble,  faintly  keep 
The  gorgeous  nights  of  starry  splendors  deep, 
The  happy  days  of  sunshine  and  their  glow, — 
As  in  their  hearts  the  morns  they  used  to  know, 
The  gentle  noons  and  eves  of  shadow  sleep, 
And  tender  odors,  full  of  fondness,  creep 


70        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

From  treasured  fragrance  of  the  Long  Ago, — 
So  my  poor  soul,  a  shrivelled,  worthless  thing, 

Remembrance  holds  of  half-forgotten  spheres 
Where  first  it  felt  the  sunshine  of  the  spring 

And  drank  the  nectars  of  the  golden  years  ; 

And  now  and  then,  between  the  plash  of  tears, 
It  sobs  the  music  that  it  used  to  sing. 


THE  DOOR  OF  LIFE. 

EATH  is  the  door  of  Life.     There  frightened 

flees 

The  hard,  ignoble  world  of  warring  creeds, 
The  realm  of  narrow  hopes  and  selfish  deeds, 
The  crime  and  curse  of  murder  and  disease. 
The  small,  bombastic  fools  that  sore  displease, 
The  swollen  knaves  and  microscopic  breeds, 
Stay  far  behind,  and  happiness  succeeds 
With  songs  of  rapture  and  the  shades  of  ease. 
The  gods  are  then  companions  of  our  days, 
The  noblemen  of  nature  and  the  great, 

The  royal   hearts  that   found    the  world   too 

small ; 
And  through  the  vast,  illimitable  ways, 

Where   Peace   and   Joy,   sweet   servants,  gladly 

wait, 
We  walk  with  Truth,  and  Love  is  All  in  All. 


Enaction.  71 

INACTION. 

(On  account  of  the  well-recognized  precedents  in  such  mat 
ters,  the  Administration  does  not  think  the  present  stage  of 
affairs  in  Cuba  justifies  any  change  in  the  attitude  of  the  Gov 
ernment. — Press  despatch.} 

\\T HAT  !  must  thou  pause,  my  Country,  cring- 
^  *  ing  low 

Before  these  puppets  made  of  precedent  ? 

Thou  unto  whom  the  wrathful  ages  lent 
Their  swarming  forces  to  o'ercome  thy  foe  ? 
Break  off  thy  cobweb  fetters  !     Dost  thou  know 

How  from  thy  lips  imploring  prayers  were  sent 

When  thou  wert  feeble,  till  thy  chains  were  rent 
And  all  thine  enemies  met  overthrow  ? 

Arise  and  act  !     These  be  heroic  times, 
And  men  are  heroes  when  they  duty  do  ; 

These  precedents  are  idols,  and  all  climes 
Shall  worship  kneeling  only  God  the  True  ; 
Behold  thy  banner  waving  !     In  its  view 

A  sin  'gainst  freedom  is  the  worst  of  crimes  ! 


72        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Couture. 
TO  THE  RESCUE. 

"\7EA,  send  thy  succor  quickly  !     Far  too  long, 
^       With  heart  unheeding  and  with  palsied  hands, 
Great  Freedom's  First-born   slow    and    slothful 

stands, 

While  armied  legions  'round  her  neighbor  throng  ; 
Force  striving  after  murder,  fierce  and  strong, 
Poises  the  dripping  dagger  ;  thus  commands 
Obeisance  unto  despots,  and  his  brands 
Make  desolate  the  Ocean's  Pearl  with  wrong  ! 

And  what  though  tyrants  bluster?     In  thy  youth, 
O,  land  of  life's  best  longings,  they  cursed  thee, 

And  thou  didst  fear  not  !     Drive  the  wolves  un 
couth 
Back  to  their  darkness,  till  the  western  sea 

Rolls  fetterless  !     Unsheathe  thy  sword  for  Truth, 
And  swear,  God  willing,  Cuba  shall  be  free  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


73 


AT  EASTERTIDE. 


o 


hill  and  over  dale, 
Over  mountain,  over  vale, 
Hear,  oh,  hear 

All  the  music  sweet  and  clear 
From  the  horns  of  Easter  blowing, 
Like  a  river  flooded  flowing 

Over  meadows  far  and  near  ! 
Wheresoe'er  the  echoes  drift, 
How  the  sleeping  blossoms  lift 
In  a  resurrection  swift 

From  the  horrid  graves  they  knew 
When  the  winds  of  winter  blew  ! 
How  the  joyous,  jocund  throats 
Of  the  happy  birds 

Open  wide  and  fling 
Outward,  up,  a  song  that  floats 

Sweeter  far  than  human  words, 
Full  of  tender,  laughing  notes, 
Where  they  soar  and  sing  ! 
'T  is  a  time,  tender  time, 
Full  of  rich  and  royal  rhyme, 
Ever  full  of  happy  song  and  glee 
And  the  mighty  magic  sunny  of  angelic  melody. 
75 


76        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Gabriel  sounds  his  trumpet  wide  ; 
'T  is  the  joyous  Eastertide  ! 
Yester  eve  the  world  was  dead 

In  the  cold  embrace  of  night ; 

Morning  brought  the  life  and  light, 
And  the  shadows  quickly  fled, 
And  the  brooding  shadows  far  away  have  fled. 

Over  prairie,  over  wood, 
Over  all  the  solitude, 
See,  oh,  see 

All  the  buds  and  blossoms  wee, 
How  they  come  with  rapture  leaping 
From  the  heavy  shadows  sleeping 
Where  the  storms  of  winter  be  ! 
When  the  Spring,  the  angel,  calls 
With  creative  voice  that  falls 
Through  the  dark  and  dismal  halls 
Where  they  hidden  lie  asleep, 
Suddenly  they  live  and  leap  ! 
How  their  tender  beauty  thrills 
With  its  gentle  grace 

All  the  darkened  earth, 
All  the  rivers,  all  the  rills, 
With  a  tenderness  that  fills 
Every  solitary  place 
With  a  newer  birth  ! 

Oh,  the  Spring,  laughing  Spring  ! 
Ever  full  of  joys  that  bring 
To  the  wooded  valley  and  the  plain 
Gorgeous  glories  full  of  spendor  that  shall  ever 
more  remain  ! 


Bt  Baetettt&e.  77 

Gabriel  blows  his  music  wide  ; 
'T  is  the  joyous  Eastertide  ! 
Yester  eve  the  earth  was  lone 

In  the  winter  time  of  wrong  ; 

Morning  came  with  light  and  song, 
And  the  sorrows  fast  have  flown, 
And  the  heavy  sorrows  far  away  have  flown  ! 

Let  the  longings  rule  and  reign 
Over  heart  and  over  brain  ! 
Glad  and  gay 

Are  the  songs  that  sound  alway, 
That  in  chorus  warble  tender 
From  a  thousand  throats  of  splendor 

All  the  bright  and  happy  day. 
Robin,  lark,  and  linnet  sing, 
Wren  and  bluebird  music  bring, 
Borne  on  swift  and  joyous  wing 
From  the  sunny  homes  afar 
Where  the  balmy  breezes  are. 
How  their  carols  roll  and  rise 
As  they  scatter  wide 

All  their  treasured  glees, 
Sweet  as  songs  of  Paradise 
Underneath  elysian  skies, 

Till  the  plain  and  mountain-side 
Reel  with  melodies  ! 

Oh,  the  days,  perfect  days, 
When  we  walk  in  holy  ways, 
And  the  pleasant  paths  wherein  we  go 
Heaven's  gentle  benedictions  and  earth's  purest 
pleasures  know  ! 


78        Songs  from  tbc  Soutbwest  Countrg. 

Gabriel  blows  with  pomp  and  pride  ; 
'T  is  the  joyous  Eastertide  ! 
Yester  eve  the  earth  was  sad, 
And  her  hills  and  valleys  bare  ; 
Morning  clothed  her  sweet  and  fair, 
And  she  trips  a  maiden  glad, 
Trips  a  maiden  blest  with  beauty,  who  is  most 
divinely  clad  ! 


Let  the  life  be  glad  and  gay, — 
'T  is  the  resurrection  day  ! 

Gabriel  calls 

From  their  ghost-enchanted  halls 
Every  warble  choice  and  choral, 
Every  blossom  fond  and  floral, 

And  the  sweetest  music  falls  ! 
As  the  flowers  of  beauty  leap 
From  their  cradles  dark  and  deep, 
Let  thy  soul  in  rapture  sweep 

Through  the  aisles  of  glory  long 

On  the  wings  of  psalm  and  song  ! 
Joyous  be  thou  in  the  glee 

Of  the  flowers  that  bloom, 

Of  the  birds  that  sing, 
Till  enchanted  melody 
Fills  the  race  with  revelry, 

And  no  shade  or  shadowed  gloom 
Dwells  within  the  spring  ! 

Time  of  cheer,  soothing  cheer  ! 
When  millennial  days  are  near, 


©ID  TRange  IRoafc.  79 

Pleasures  hurry  onward  like  a  flood, 
And  the  erring  ones  are  angels,  angels  that  are 
great  and  good. 

EW 
Gabriel  calls  our  souls  away, — 

'  T  is  the  resurrection  day  ! 
Yester  eve  with  droop  and  sigh 
Life  was  all  despairing  fears  ; 
Morning  wipes  away  our  tears 
In  the  golden  Bye  and  Bye, 
In   the   dreamed-of,  in   the   sought-for,   in    the 
longed-for  Bye  and  Bye  ! 


THE  OLD    RANGE  ROAD. 

RANGE    Road   wide    and    wonderful,    that 

paths  of  heaven  made 
Through  all  the  olden,  golden  ways  where  childish 

fancies  played, 

Every  inch  of  all  your  gladness  is  so  eloquent  to-day 
Of  all  we  told  each  other  in  the  years  that  went 

away  ! — 

So  eloquent  of  joyousness,  my  heart  is  like  a  prayer, 
And  I  would  fold  and  fondly  hold  and  keep  you 

always  there  ! 

We  had  delightful  dearnesses  of  rapture,  you  and  I, 
When  living,  in  the  Long  Ago,  the  laughing  Bye  and 

Bye, 
When  every  mortal  passing  us  was  angel  good  and 

wise. 


8o        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

That  wandered  out  of  heaven's  gates  and  back  to 

Paradise, 
And  all  the  worlds  so  wonderful  came  with  them 

one  and  all, 
And  stayed  with  us  and  played  with  us, — but  left  us 

mean  and  small  ! 

And  how  we  hoped  to  follow  them  some  happy  day 

to  come, — 
Those  glory-dreams  of  conquering,  of  might  and 

masterdom  ! 
We  'd  march  across  the  continent,  we  'd  sail  across 

the  sea, 
And  take  whatever  pleasured  us  to  sceptre  you  and 

me  ; 
And  all  the  wealth  and  wonder,  the  palace  and  the 

throne, 
We  'd  confiscate  and  capture  and  make  them  all  our 

own  ! 

And  over  you  and  unto  me  men  walked  miraculous, 
And  brought  the  stranger  countries  directly  home 

to  us  ; 
Oh,  how  we  listened, — you  and  I, — to  all  the  tales 

they  told 
Of    Indians   and   of    pirates,    of    cocoanuts    and 

gold  ; 
And  how,  through  all  the  after-dreams  that  haunted 

night  and  day, 
Their  anecdotes  looked  in  again  and  glorified  the 

way  ! 


©ID  IRange  "KoaD.  81 

There  was  the  sailor  who  had  gone  across  the  seas 

of  calm, 
And,  castaway,  had  lived  awhile  amid  the  isles  of 

palm  ; 
Who  sported  with  the  cannibals  and  taught  them  so 

complete 
They  learned  at  last  that   mission-men  are  never 

good  to  eat  ; 
But  finally  a  ship  hailed  he,  and   coming   to   his 

home, 
Found  wife   and  children  all  were   dead, — which 

made  him  love  to  roam  ! 


There  was  the  soldier  who  had  been  his  country's 
stay  and  shield 

At  Winchester  and  Gettysburg  when  carnage  swept 
the  field  ; 

Who  marched  with  Sherman  to  the  sea  and  tri 
umphed  o'er  the  foe, 

But  left  a  leg  and  arm  behind  because  of  fighting 
so  ; 

And  as  he  fought  and  marched  away  and  told  his 
tales  again 

The  hearts  of  us  were  strangely  moved  to  do  the 
deeds  of  men. 

And  then  that   little   fellow  !    the   thin,  dyspeptic 

one, 
Who  sat  and  told  his  stories  till  night  was  nearly 

done  ! 


82        Songg  from  tbc  Soutbwcst  Country. 

He  lived  in  big  Chicago,  was  rich  as  heart's  desire, 
And  had  a  wife  and  little  ones,  before  the  awful 

fire  ; 

But  it  burned  up  his  family  and  all  he  had  of  worth, 
Which  sent  him  forth  a  wanderer  all  up  and  down 

the  earth. 

The  juggler  and  the  showman,  too,  who  made  their 
livings  thus, 

The  tinman  and  the  ragman  came,  and  all  dis 
coursed  to  us  ; 

The  Irish-linen  peddler,  the  man  who  soldered  tins, 

Who  told  us  all  their  stories  of  all  their  outs  and 
ins  ; 

And  there  were  scores  of  others  whose  doings  large 
and  vast 

Inspired  to  do  as  they  did,  when  childhood  should 
be  passed  ! 

And  so  our  hearts  were  opened,  old  Range  Road, 

yours  and  mine, 
To  all  earth's  dismal  shadow  and  all  its  golden 

shine  ; 
And  those  that  went  along  you  went  over  me  and 

through, 
And  beckoned  me  to  follow  them  and  prove  their 

tales  to  you  ; 
And  so   we   looked  with    longing  through   happy 

cycles  when 
I  'd  wander  full  of  wonder  down  the  mighty  years 

of  men. 


©10  IRange  IRoafc.  83 

And  here  I  am  and  here  you  are,  old    Comrade, 

much  the  same 
As  when  I  left  you  long  ago  to  climb  the  hills  of 

fame  ; 
I  meet  you  and  I  greet  you,  and  call  you  all  my 

own 
Beyond  the  years  of  vagrancy  my  truant  feet  have 

known  ; 
And  in  your  eyes  and  face  and  hands  I  feel  as  not 

before 
A  perfectness  of   tenderness  they  never   knew  of 

yore. 


The  stories  that  they  brought  were  true  ;  the  won 
ders  that  they  told 

Revealed  the  world  of  men  and  things  and  all  they 
have  and  hold  ; 

But  after  all  my  wanderings  through  all  that  men 
may  do 

I  'm  weary  of  their  heartlessness  and  hasten  home 
to  you  ; 

And  'spite  of  all  that 's  happened  since,  the  days  we 
used  to  know 

Sing  in  my  soul  forevermore  the  songs  of  long  ago  ! 


There !     Let  me  take  your  hand  in  mine  and  feel 

your  friendly  face, 
And  lay  us  heart  to  heart  again  in  childhood's  warm 

embrace  ! 


84         Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

We  are  not  old  or  broken  down  ;  we  both  are  young 

as  when 
I  left  the  vales  of  childhood  for  the  rugged  hills  of 

men  ; 
These  hairs  upon  our  foreheads  are  only  white  with 

truth,— 
These  tears  upon  our  eyelids  are  happy  tears  of 

youth  ! 

We  used  to  quarrel  a  little.  You  thought  me  reck 
less  quite  ; 

I  called  you  old  and  fogy  and  foolish  day  and 
night  : 

And  thus  we  bickered  somewhat  ;  but  after  all 
we  Ve  seen, 

We  know  each  other  better  now  with  fifty  years 
between  ; 

For  lives  of  work  and  wisdom  hold  never  such  sur 
prise 

As  gazes  down  the  future  through  childhood's  ten 
der  eyes. 

Let  us  forgive  each  other  !  Of  all  the  good  and  true, 
I  find  you  best  and  truest,  and  hold  my  heart  to  you  ; 
I  hold  it  close  and  closer,  and  let  you  clasp  it  there 
With  something  born  of  rapture  between  a  praise 

and  prayer  ; 
And  through  the  years  unending,  the  years  of  good 

and  ill, 
We  '11  laugh  and  play  together, — forever  children 

still  ! 


THE   NIGHT. 

the  Night ! 

When  the  might 
Of  the  boundless  heavens  bright 
Fills  the  hopes  with  satisfaction  and  the  longings 
with  delight ; 

When  the  roll 
And  the  toll 

Of  Life's  thunders  lose  control, 
And  a  wondrous  diapason  sounds  the  organs  of  the 
soul  ; 

And  a  hymn 
Faintly  dim 

Haunts  the  far  horizon's  rim, 

Like    the   lilt   of    angel   music    in    the   chants   of 
cherubim  ! 

In  the  still 
Hours  that  fill 
Fiendish  fancies  full  of  ill, 

To  the  innocent  upwander  all  the  wants  of   wish 
and  will  ; 

And  the  wide 
Fields  of  pride 
Send  their  monarchs  side  by  side 


86         Songs  from  tbe  Southwest  Country. 

With  the  holy  saints  and  martyrs  that  were  crossed 
and  crucified  ; 
Till  despair 
Weights  the  air 

With  the  moaning  cries  of  care, 
And  the  world  kneels  by  the  Father  in  a  sin-subdu 


ing  prayer 


In  the  weird, 
Wild,  and  feared 

Realms  of  silence,  cherub-cheered, 
How  we  clasp  in  fond  embraces  all  that  time  and 
toil  endeared  ! 

How  the  strife 
Fiercely  rife 

With  the  roll  of  drum  and  fife, 
Dies  away  in  tender  music  of  a  more  exalted  life, 
And  the  small 
Leaps  the  wall 

Where  the  less  and  little  fall, 

Till  thyself  is  nothing,  nothing,  and  thy  God  is  All 
in  All ! 

Then  the  tears 
Leave  the  years, 

And  the  foolish  frights  and  fears 
List  to   whispers  high   and   holy  heard   alone   by 
prophet's  ears  ; 
And  the  cry, 
Sob,  and  sigh 


Cbe  fligbt.  87 

Leave  the  stricken  soul  for  aye, 
As  he  wanders  in  the  wonders  of  the  blessed  Bye 
and  Bye  ; 

And  the  woe 
Demons  know 
In  the  dungeons  dark  below 

Never  shades  the  dreams  he  cherished  in  the  happy 
Long  Ago  ! 

How  the  gay 
Raptures  play, 

As  our  ships  that  sailed  away, 
All  are  anchored  safe  at  harbor  in  the  waters  of  the 
bay  ! 

As  the  trust 
Of  the  just 

Soars  above  the  dew  and  dust 
Till  the  "may"  of  faith  and  fancy  overcomes  the 
might  of  "must"  ; 
And  Love  drips 
Pain's  eclipse 

From  the  Saviour's  finger-tips, 
And  the  world  is   wed  to  Heaven  in   the   Lord's 
Apocalypse  ! 

O  the  Night ! 
When  the  might 

Of  the  boundless  heavens  bright 
Fills  our  hopes  with  satisfaction  and  our  longings 
with  delight ; 


88        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

When  the  roll 
And  the  toll 

Of  Life's  thunders  lose  control, 
And  a  wondrous  diapason  sounds  the  organs  of  the 
soul ; 

And  a  hymn 
Faintly  dim 

Haunts  the  far  horizon's  rim, 

Like   the   lilt   of    angel   music   in   the   chants   of 
cherubim  ! 


"O  MY  HEART,  BE  BRAVE  AGAIN!" 


O 


my  heart, 

Be  brave  again  ! 
Bear  thy  part 

A  man  of  men  ! 

These  dark  things  of  awe  and  error 
Swift  shall  vanish  with  their  terror, 
And  the  fears  that  frighten  so 
Down  the  dying  years  shall  go, 
Till  the  days  rejoice  resplendent  with  the  hopes  that 

sweetly  shine 

Through   the  vistas  of  the  future  and   its    Edens 
that  are  thine  ! 

What  if  ways 

Seem  rough  with  wrong 
Through  the  days 

Of  sigh  and  song  ? 


"©  /Eg  Tbeart,  3Be  Brave  Bgain!"         89 

Thou  shalt  clasp  the  hearts  that  love  thee, 
Thou  shalt  climb  the  hills  above  thee, 

Thou  shalt  reach  the  land  that  see/ns 
All  the  heaven  of  thy  dreams, 
And  a  glorifying  whisper   shall  exalt  thy  deepest 

care 

To  the  blessed  benediction  of  a  cherub's  perfect 
prayer. 

Drive  thy  fears 

And  doubts  away  ! 
Down  the  years 

Are  pleasures  gay  ; 
These  distressing  clouds  of  sadness 
Only  veil  the  suns  of  gladness  ; 
These  unholy  weeds  of  woe 
Only  hide  the  blooms  below  ; 

And  the  sun  shall  lift  the  blossoms  till  their  ten 
derness  shall  stream 

Through  the  laughter  of  thy  longing  and  the  dear- 
ness  of  thy  dream  ! 

Bear  the  blows 

That  fortune  gives  ! 
Sorrow  knows 

Each  one  that  lives. 
Be  a  man  that  bravely  faces 
All  his  failures  and  disgraces  ; 

Be  a  man  that  struggles  strong, — 
Arm  of  might  and  soul  of  song  ! 


90        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Till  the  sceptres  of  the  raptures  thrust  thy  fierce 

detractors  down, 
And  the  world's  ignoble  shouters  tremble  at  thy 

robe  and  crown  ! 


Joys  for  thee 

Shall  crowding  come 
In  that  free 

Millennium, 

And  the  woes  that  weeping  vex  thee 
Never,  never  shall  perplex  thee  ! 
For  the  years  of  Bye  and  Bye 
Shall  with  rapture  sanctify 
All  the  weary  ways  we  wander  through  the  crags  of 

blight  and  blame 

To  the  high  and  holy  hilltops  in  the  glory-lands  of 
fame  ! 


T 


CREEDS. 

'ALK  not  to  me 

Of  stern  decree, — 
Of  creeds  that  bind  their  betters  ; 
There  is  no  grace 
In  things  that  place 
The  human  soul  in  fetters  ! 

Wake  not  the  fear, 
Start  not  the  tear, 
That  speaks  of  wondrous  terror  ; 


Gree&s.  91 


Man's  heart  is  gold, 
Its  worth  untold, 
In  spite  of  all  his  error. 

No  more  rehearse 

The  priestly  curse, 
The  ban  for  unbelieving  ; 

No  more  condemn 

The  souls  of  them 
That  over  guilt  are  grieving. 

The  haughty  soul 

Who  claims  control 
Because  of  vestments  holy, 

Has  never  felt 

The  good  that  dwelt 
In  Christ,  the  meek  and  lowly  ! 

In  hands  that  feed, 

In  hearts  that  bleed, 
Truth  sees  her  greatest  teacher, 

Far  more  than  all 

The  bans  that  fall 
From  lips  of  priest  or  preacher. 

For  lives  that  lift 

The  souls  adrift, 
The  hosts  of  hate  are  yearning  ; 

To  such  as  know 

Their  grief  and  woe, 
The  sons  of  men  are  turning. 


92        Songs  from  tbc  Soutbweet  Country. 

There  is  no  creed 

Like  human  need 
To  teach  the  grace  of  giving  ; 

There  is  no  prayer 

Like  tender  care 
To  teach  the  love  of  living  ! 


The  bended  knee, 

It  seems  to  me, 
Is  not  with  service  gifted  ; 

No  blessings  rise 

From  folded  eyes 
Unless  the  heart 's  uplifted  ! 


Destroy  the  chains 

That  bind  the  brains  ! 
'T  is  what  we  are  that  saves  us  ; 

No  mere  belief 

Can  conquer  grief 
And  all  the  hate  that  braves  us. 


Tear  up  the  creeds  ! 

"T  is  worthy  deeds, 
From  hands  and  hearts  out-given, 

Shall  put  to  rout 

Man's  dark  and  doubt, 
And  lead  him  up  to  heaven  ! 


T 


THE    CONQUEROR. 

HE  man  who  has  found 
All  the  dreams  that  he  knew, 
Feels  the  deeds  he  can  do  ! 
There  is  power  over  pain, 
There  is  charm  for  the  chain, 
In  the  hopes  he  has  crowned 

With  the  garlands  of  gain  ; 
And  a  giant  he  stands 
In  the  mystical  might  of  his  heart  and  his  hands  ! 

The  longings  that  leap 

From  the  lips,  uncontrolled, 
Are  the  masters  of  gold, 

Of  the  fagots  and  thrones, 
Of  the  stars  and  the  stones, 
That  the  multitudes  keep  ; 

And  they  beckon  and  bring 
All  the  glories  and  gifts  of  the  pauper  and  king. 

With  hope  in  thy  heart 

And  with  love  in  thy  life, 
What  is  struggle  or  strife  ? 
Not  a  taunt  nor  a  tear, 
Not  a  failure  nor  fear, 
Not  a  pang  nor  a  smart, 

Shall  envenom  thee  here, 
Shall  environ  the  soul 

That  has  yielded  to  love  and  its  happy  control. 
93 


94        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

What  matters  it,  then, 

Though  the  black  of  the  blast 
On  thy  pathway  be  cast  ? 

In  the  truth  of  thy  trust, 
In  the  might  of  thy  "must," 
Thou  shalt  monarch  the  men 

With  their  dreams  in  the  dust, 
And  the  stars  of  thy  love 
Shall  arise  in  the  sky  as  the  stars  rise  above. 

Who  harvests  the  sheaves 

Of  the  grain  that  he  sought, 
Follows  ever  his  thought 

Through  its  throb  and  its  thrill, 
Through  its  wonder  and  will, 
And  the  truth  he  believes 

Through  the  errors  of  ill  ; 
And  he  conquers  at  last, — 

O'er  the  future  supreme  through  the  might  of  his 
past ! 

O  Life  that  is  long 

On  the  grief -laden  slopes, 
Be  thou  true  to  thy  hopes  ! 

All  the  dear  of  thy  dreams, 
All  the  thrill  of  their  themes, 
Shall  assemble  in  song, 

By  the  joy-giving  streams  ; 
And  the  deeds  of  thy  hands 
Shall  ennoble  the  races  through  all  of  the  lands  ! 


T 


IMMORTAL. 

'HE  life  that  is  lived 

Never  dies  from  the  world  ! 
On  the  height  of  the  hills, 
On  the  rush  of  the  rills, 
Over  achings  and  ills, 

Are  its  banners  unfurled  ; 
And  it  struggles  and  strives 
Through  uncountable  lives, 
Till  it  conquering  rolls 

Through  the  darks  and  the  deeps  of  unceasable 
souls  ! 

The  life  that  is  lived 

Has  a  wonderful  power  ! 

On  the  mountains  of  might, 

On  the  narrows  of  night, 

On  the  black  and  the  bright, 
Are  its  turret  and  tower  ; 

Its  commands  have  a  place 

In  the  realms  of  the  race, 

And  it  rules  through  the  years 
All  the  nations  of  laughter  and  peoples  of  tears. 

The  life  that  is  lived 

Has  unmeasured  extent ! 
95 


96         Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Through  the  present  and  past, 
Through  the  vague  and  the  vast, 
From  the  first  to  the  last, 

Is  it  centred  and  sent ; 
For  its  miracles  reach 
Over  silence  and  speech, 
Till  its  boundary  springs 
O'er  the  outermost  edge  of  unendable  things  ! 

The  life  that  is  lived, — 

What  a  masterful  thing  ! 
How  it  soars  in  man's  thought, 
In  the  truths  he  has  taught, 
In  the  deeds  he  has  wrought, 

Like  a  bird  on  the  wing  ! 
'T  is  an  unsetting  sun 
Endless  journeys  to  run, 
And  its  blessings  so  hurled 
That  a  life  which  is  lived  never  dies  from  the  world'! 


MIND. 

XT  O  master  mine  !     Eternal  king 

•*•          Of  Cosmos  and  of  Chaos,  I 
The  awful  arts  of  time  defy, 

And  all  diseases  death  may  bring  ; 

Creation  wheels  her  wondrous  ways 

Through  starry  circles  vague  and  vast, 
And.  age  on  ages  hurries  past, 

To  me  as  swiftly  as  the  days. 


/BMnD.  97 

Before  dim  Reason  thought,  I  was  ; 

Before  the  first  beginnings,  I 

Was  monarch  of  the  Whence  and  Why, 
The  How  and  Where,  the  primal  Cause  ; 
Before  the  dreams  of  Time  and  Space, 

I  ruled  the  empires  of  To  Be  ; 

Extent  was  measureless  for  me, 
Eternity  my  dwelling-place  ! 

The  great,  eternal,  mighty  Force, 

I  reign,  I  rule,  command,  compel  ; 

In  me  is  Paradise  and  Hell, 
And  'round  me  Nature  wheels  her  course  ; 
All  happiness  and  Truth  I  find, 

All  Sorrows  at  my  motion  fall  ; 

The  Cause,  the  Source,  the  End  of  all, 
Enduring,  wondrous,  deathless  Mind  ! 

An  atom  of  myself,  a  thing, 

I  planted  in  a  lump  of  clay  ; 

It  grew  to  greatness  in  a  day, 
And  called  itself  a  man,  a  king  ; 
It  caught  the  lightning,  chained  the'storm, 

It  felled  the  woods,  and  walked  the  waves, 

Explored  the  skies,  dug  earth's  dim  caves, 
And  sought  to  know  my  Face  and  Form. 

Toward  me  he  toils  ;  his  golden  age 

Is  in  the  future,  not  the  past, 

For  I  alone  am  great  at  last 
In  vacant  fool  or  sapient  sage  ; 


98        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Countrg. 

And  upward,  onward,  shall  he  strive, 

This  atom  mine  that  walks  the  earth, 
Despising  all  his  humble  birth 

And  seeking  me  to  learn,  and  live. 

From  farthest  brain  to  farthest  brain, 

While  suns  and  stars  and  systems  grow, 
The  sovereign  One  above,  below, 

I  live,  I  leap,  I  rule,  I  reign  ; 

The  monarch  of  all  things  that  are, 
Of  all  that  is  and  is  to  be, 
My  sceptre  leaps  with  forces  free 

From  sun  to  sun  and  star  to  star  ! 


DREAMER   AND    SINGER. 

world  laughed  long  at  his  pensive  face 
And  the  wistful  gaze  of  his  tender  eyes, 
But  he  knew  the  glint  of  a  wondrous  grace 
And  the  perfect  pleasures  of  Paradise  ; 
And  the  scenes  he  saw  were  so  fair  and  bright 

That  the  wise  men  longed  for  the  fond  array  ; 
For  an  angel  dreamed  in  his  heart  by  night, 
And  a  little  bird  sang  in  his  soul  by  day. 

The  words  of  his  mouth  made  a  music  sweet 
That  rippled  and  rang  with  the  notes  of  glee, 

And  sad  hosts  echoed  the  strains  replete 
With  all  of  their  rhythmical  rhapsody  ; 


Dreamer  ano  Singer.  99 

And  he  sang  a  song,  till  they  knew  his  might, 
Till  they  kissed  his  feet  on  the  public  way  ; 

For  an  angel  dreamed  in  his  heart  by  night, 
And  a  little  bird  sang  in  his  soul  by  day. 

His  years  were  happy  with  joys  divine, 

And  his  longings  lived  in  a  far-off  land  ; 
And  sweeter  than  drops  of  the  sweetest  wine 

Were  the  hopes  he  only  could  understand  ; 
And  all  the  hours  of  his  days  were  light, 

And  all  the  loves  of  his  life  were  gay ; 
For  an  angel  dreamed  in  his  heart  by  night, 

And  a  little  bird  sang  in  his  soul  by  day. 

There  are  gifts  divine  that  are  more  than  great, 

And  prouder  than  sceptres  that  monarchs  wear  ; 
And  what  to  him  were  the  pomp  of  state 

And  the  tinselled  splendor  that  glittered  there  ? 
The  sorrows  and  troubles  from  him  took  flight, 

And  the  tears  at  his  coming  fled  far  away  ; 
For  an  angel  dreamed  in  his  heart  by  night, 

And  a  little  bird  sang  in  his  soul  by  day. 

What  mattered  it,  then,  if  a  ragged  coat 

And  a  broken  cap  were  the  garbs  he  wore  ? 
That  crusts  were  his  food  ?     For  he  sang  the  note 

Of  a  tender  song,  and  he  wept  no  more  ! 
And  we  know,  we  know,  that  his  love  was  bright, 

That  his  life  was  the  roll  of  a  roundelay  ; 
For  an  angel  dreamed  in  his  heart  by  night, 

And  a  little  bird  sang  in  his  soul  by  day. 


ioo       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

And  he  is  greater  than  czars  and  kings  ! 

The  world  may  praise  them  awhile  in  fear, 
But  wreathes  its  laurels  for  him  who  sings 

And  soothes  the  anguish  of  toil  and  tear  ; 
And  he  is  enthroned  on  Love's  far  height 

While  kingdoms  crumble  and  crowns  decay  ; 
For  an  angel  dreams  in  his  heart  by  night, 

And  a  little  bird  sings  in  his  soul  by  day  ! 


THE    ROSES. 

do  the  roses  know 
Of  the  noon  and  the  night  ? 
What  of  the  dark  through  which  they  grow 

Up  to  the  life  and  light  ? 
Above  are  the  stars  and  the  dew, 

Below  are  the  soil  and  the  sod  ; 
How  it  happened  they  never  knew, 

But  they  sprang  from  stone  and  clod  I 

What  do  the  roses  know 

Of  the  shriek  and  the  song  ? 
What  of  the  breeze  that  blesses  so, 

What  of  the  gale  that  is  strong  ? 
Above  are  the  skies  of  the  bright, 

Below  are  the  seas  of  the  shade, 
And  full  of  beauty  by  day  and  night 

Do  their  hot  cheeks  flush  and  fade. 


TRoses. 


What  do  the  roses  know 

Of  the  dreams  that  they  dream  ? 
What  of  the  fancies  that  spring  and  flow 

Forth  in  a  bountiful  stream  ? 
They  bud  and  they  blossom  and  die, 

They  wither  and  shrivel  and  fade  ; 
Does  all  they  were  in  the  ashes  lie 

Where  the  petals  low  are  laid  ? 

What  do  the  roses  know 

Of  the  dead  or  the  dust  ? 
What  of  a  life  where  they  shall  blow 

Glad  as  the  garlands  of  trust  ? 
Do  they  at  the  touch  of  the  hand 

With  rapture  astart  and  athrill, 
Feel  joys  their  hearts  cannot  understand 

That  are  strong  as  wish  and  will  ? 

What  do  the  roses  know  ? 

We  are  all  of  the  truth  ! 
Life  that  is  red  in  their  hearts  aglow,  — 

Is  life  of  my  life,  in  sooth  ! 
The  dreams  they  dream  in  the  dew 

Are  dreams  that  I  cannot  control,  — 
These  hopes  of  mine  are  the  hopes  that  grew 

In  the  depths  of  a  rose's  soul  ! 

What  do  the  roses  know  ? 

They  are  peers  of  the  wise  ; 
Ever  they  struggle  from  earth  below, 

Ever  they  long  for  the  skies  ! 


102       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbweet  Country. 

They  prize  the  dreams  of  a  darling  hope, 
As  much  as  the  children  of  men, 

And  here  and  there  on  a  sunny  slope 
I  shall  meet  them  all  again  ! 


GREED. 

AXT'HEREVER  the  man  upturns  the  soil, 

Wherever  he  sows  the  seed, 
There  dwells  a  monster  that  mocks  his  toil, 

And  the  monster's  name  is  Greed  ! 
And  year  by  year,  as  men  garner  in 

The  harvest  they  reap  in  pain, 
The  monster  sits  by  the  bursting  bin, 

And  he  feasts  on  the  golden  grain. 

There  is  never  a  home  in  the  world  so  wide 

That  is  far  from  his  haunts  a\vay  ; 
If  he  shuns  the  palace  with  all  its  pride, 

Yet  he  enters  the  hut  to  stay  ; 
And  where  the  race  in  its  sorrow  strives 

On  the  barren  heath  or  hill, 
He  claims  his  armies  of  human  lives 

And  his  legions  of  human  will. 

He  gathers  the  rose  from  the  rounded  cheek 
And  the  red  from  the  rare  young  lip, 

And  the  strongest  arm  in  the  world  is  weak 
At  the  touch  of  his  finger-tip  ; 


©reeO.  103 

And  the  happy  song  is  a  mournful  wail, 

And  the  laugh  is  a  shriek  of  fright ; 
For  the  world  grows  fierce  and  is  thin  and  pale 

In  the  awe  of  his  appetite. 

Then  Sin  with  her  bitter  herbs  of  grief, 

And  Vice  with  her  potions  wild, 
With  ready  promise  of  long  relief 

Win  woman  and  man  and  child  ! 
For  what  is  Virtue  when  want  is  near, 

And  what  is  the  fairest  fame  ? 
They  are  all  undone  at  the  doom  they  hear 

In  the  shriek  of  the  monster's  name  ! 

It  's  Oh,  for  the  tears  that  are  nightly  shed 

When  he  cometh  to  claim  his  own  ! 
And  Oh,  for  the  curses  that  heap  his  head 

Where  the  millions  of  men  make  moan  ! 
It 's  Oh,  for  the  children  that  helpless  cry, 

For  the  women  that  wail  and  weep, 
A-faint  for  the  crust  that  his  hands  deny 

And  the  crumb  that  his  fingers  keep  ! 

Then  ho,  for  the  hero  with  shining  shield 

And  a  spear  like  the  lance  of  God, 
To  whose  hard  blow  shall  the  monster  yield, 

And  the  curse  of  the  toiler's  sod  ! 
A  thousand  ages  of  glory  stay 

For  the  Knight  of  the  Noble  Deed, 
For  the  strong,  brave  heart  who  shall  come  and  slay 

The  monster  of  human  Greed  ! 


PLAYING  HORSE. 

TIP  and  down  the  pathway  lined 
^      With  sweet  grasses  intertwined, 
Where  the  orchard's  bud  and  bloom 
Fill  the  air  with  fond  perfume, 
Rides  a  hero  brave  and  bold 
As  the  fabled  knights  of  old, 
On  a  charger  that  he  deems 
Wondrous  as  his  wondrous  dreams  ! 

Firm  he  sits  the  reins  to  clasp 
More  securely  in  his  grasp  ; 
Swift  the  spurs  descending  clank 
Deeply  in  the  tender  flank  ; 
Cruel  swings  the  savage  whip, 
Pliant  to  his  finger-tip, 
And  his  charger  gallops  gay 
'Round  the  wonder  world  away  ! 

Forth  he  journeys  fast  and  far 
Where  the  gnomes  and  fairies  are, 
And  he  gladly  enters  in 
Lands  where  happy  dreams  begin  ! 
Lingers  he  a  little  while 
Where  the  pleasures  bow  and  smile  ; 
104 


placing  Tborse.  105 

Then  away  around  the  ring  ! 

'  T  is  the  land  where  Fun  is  king  ! 


Oh,  the  happy  birds  that  throng 
All  the  ways  he  hastes  along, 
And  the  gorgeous  flowers  that  blow 
Over  every  land  below  ! 
And  each  little  boy,  with  curls 
Dear  and  dainty  as  a  girl's, 
Stands  with  playthings  waiting  for 
Every  little  visitor  ! 


Tired,  he  ceases  from  his  quest  ! 
Horse  and  rider  both  may  rest  ! 
Now  the  steed  that  galloped  gay 
Munches  at  the  brambled  hay  ; 
But  the  rider,  never  still, 
Restless  in  his  wish  and  will, 
Dreams  a  greater  dream  and  then 
Calls  himself  a  man  of  men  ! 

Ah,  my  little  dreamer,  we 

All  are  dreams  in  some  degree, 

And  we  learn  as  on  we  go 

Dreams  are  dearest  things  we  know  ! 

Blest  if  over  blooming  meads 

We  may  ride  our  gallant  steeds, 

Till,  life  ended,  o'er  the  hill 

Forth  we  venture  dreaming  still ! 


A  GLAD  PLAYFELLOW. 

'"pHERE  'S  a  happy  little  fellow 
A       I  am  sure  you  'd  like  to  meet, 
For  his  ways  are  all  so  pleasant 

And  his  manners  are  so  sweet ; 
And  his  greetings  are  so  hearty, 

And  his  words  so  joyous,  too, 
That  I  know  you  "d  run  to  meet  him 

If  he  'd  show  his  face  to  you. 

There  was  never  yet  a  person 

Ever  looked  into  his  face, 
Ever  touched  his  rosy  fingers, 

Ever  saw  his  joyous  grace, — 
That  would  want  to  be  without  hirn, 

That  would  leave  him  far  or  say 
He  is  not  the  best  playfellow 

That  has  ever  come  his  way. 

Oh,  his  hair  is  glad  and  golden, 
And  his  eyes  are  brightly  blue, 

And  his  features  are  as  handsome 
As  the  fairies  ever  knew  ; 

And  his  lips  are  happy  ever 
In  the  music  that  he  sings, 
1 06 


B  <3la&  playfellow.  107 

For  he  finds  the  perfect  pleasures 
In  the  most  imperfect  things. 


He  is  most  accommodating, 

For  whate'er  your  age  and  size 
He  can  make  the  things  about  you 

Always  pleasant,  if  he  tries  ; 
And  whatever  wish  you  cherish 

He  will  make  your  fortune  fit, 
Till  you  clap  your  hands  delighted 

At  the  gladsomeness  of  it ! 

It  is  true  that  you  may  miss  him 

As  you  wander  down  the  years, 
But  you  're  pretty  sure  to  find  him 

In  among  the  toils  and  tears  ; 
For  in  unexpected  places 

Where  you  never  thought  to  see, 
He  is  oftenest  appearing 

With  his  happy  face  of  glee. 


But  I  know  if  you  should  meet  him 

You  will  find  him  quite  so  fair 
That  your  heart  can  ne'er  forget  him, 

But  will  follow  everywhere  ; 
It  will  follow  him  forever 

Through  the  worlds  below,  above, 
For  his  dwelling-place  is  Pleasure  ; 

And  his  name  ? — his  name  is  Love  ! 


THE  ON-MARCH. 

T    O,  Progress  is  no  swift  release  from  error, 
*~*     No  sudden  sun  that  banishes  the  night  ; 
Through  weary  cycles,  Man,  the  burden-bearer, 
Gropes   in   the  dark   and  struggles  toward  the 
light. 

'T  is  not  in  death-throes  where  the  battle  rages, 
And  nations  heap  the  winrows  of  their  slain, 

That  Freedom  leaps  across  the  darkened  ages, 
And  Truth  unchains  the  bondmen  of  the  plain. 

And  from  the  fields  where  armies  meet  despoiling, 
No  love-born  carols  hush  the  cries  of  wrong  ; 

But,  through  the  yearning  years  with  anguish  toiling, 
Man  makes  himself  the  instrument  of  song. 

Lo,  where  the  tireless  thinker  works  and  wonders, 
Where  Man  and  God  in  fellowship  unite, 

There  leaps  the  Thought  to  majesty  that  thunders 
Through  endless  ages  with  unceasing  might  ! 

Some  seer,  enraptured  at  his  dreams  of  duty, 
In  grave  speech  frames  a  precept  or  a  law, 

And  years  long  after  mankind  lives  in  beauty 
The  gorgeous  glories  that  the  prophet  saw  ! 
108 


109 

Some  teacher  from  his  closet  tells  the  nations 
The  words  of  Truth,  the  Deeds  that  men  should 
do; 

And  they  through  sorrows  and  deep  tribulations 
Toil  fiercely  on  to  prove  his  lessons  true  ! 

Man's  Mind  is  greater  than  his  brawn  or  bullet  ; 

His  Thought  far  vaster  than  his  Labor  stands  ; 
Men's  hopes  are  higher  than  the  world,  and  rule  it, — 

Their  hearts  are    stronger    than    their  helpless 
hands ! 

Development  unwearied  outward  courses 

Through  deepest  darkness  with  unresting  tides  ; 

Brain-throbs   and   heart-beats    are    the    deathless 

forces 
That  lead  us,  lift  us,  where  the  day  abides. 

Still  up  and  onward,  up  and  forward,  surges 
The  toiling  race,  near-drawing  to  the  goal, 

While  Truth  with  whips  of  righteous  anger  urges 
The  craven  fool  to  prove  a  Master  Soul. 

Quote  not  the  past !  Its  regal  courts  were  rabble, 
A  puny  herd  of  worse  than  worthless  things  ; 

The  world  moves  upward  from  their  childish  bab 
ble,— 
The  tireless  toilers  are  the  only  kings  ! 

Yea,  Man  himself,  the  fruit  of  long  endeavor, 
Grows  from  the  smallness  of  his  ancient  youth, 

And  shall,  at  last  perfected,  stand  forever 

An  angel  shaped  and  fashioned  to  the  Truth  ! 


THE  DREAMER. 

T  T  E  dreamed  a  dream  ;  and  far  his  hopes 
•••  •*•     Went  roaming  o'er  the  mountain  slopes  ; 
They  climbed  the  summits  coldly  tall, 
They  crossed  the  high  horizon's  wall, 
And  lingered  where  the  morning  star 
Illumined  royal  realms  afar  ; — 
Men  shook  their  heads  :  "  He  is  unfit 
For  life,"  they  said.     What  mattered  it  ? 
He  dreamed  a  dream. 

He  dreamed  a  dream  ;  and  in  his  soul 
He  heard  mysterious  music  roll  ; 
He  saw  sweet  visions  weirdly  rise 
Before  the  longings  of  his  eyes, 
And  knew  the  good  of  Man  eclipse 
The  joys  of  God's  Apocalypse  ; — 
They  said  :  "  He  has  nor  wish  nor  will  "  ; 
He  heeded  not ;  what  matter  still  ? 
He  dreamed  a  dream  ! 

He  walked  the  ways  in  rags  that  felt 
The  horrid  homes  in  which  he  dwelt  ; 
And  now  and  then  in  lonely  days 
He  sang  some  simple  roundelays, 
no 


Cbe  Dreamer.  m 

Until  the  hungry,  hardened  throngs 
Knew  something  of  his  tender  songs  ; — 
"  On  foolish  things  his  heart  is  set," 
The  thousands  said.     No  matter  yet ! 
He  dreamed  a  dream  ! 


And  lo,  he  lost  his  dream,  and  died, 
To  find  it  on  the  other  side  ! 
And  o'er  his  coffin  bent  a  few 
With  hearts  of  grief  and  eyes  of  dew, 
Till  they  a  vision  saw,  and  sought 
The  music  that  he  tamed  and  taught  ; 
And  year  by  year  a  grateful  throng 
Bows  low  to  bless  the  Man  of  Song 
Who  dreamed  a  dream. 


Ah,  life  is  more  than  tears  or  toil, 
Its  wages  more  than  sin  or  soil, 
And  from  its  holy  hands  are  shed 
Diviner  gifts  than  blows  or  bread  ; 
Who  dreams  a  dream  is  greater  far 
Than  crowds  and  crowns  and  kingdoms  are, 
And  stars  and  skies  and  systems  roll 
To  palm  and  praise  the  mystic  soul 
That  dreams  a  dream  ! 


THE    STARS. 

C  TARS  and  the  seas  of  the  night  ! 

Stars  and  the  deeps  of  the  dawn  ! 
And  the  dim  of  the  dusk  is  athrob  with  the  light 

For  the  ships  that  are  sailing  on  ! 
What  if  the  hurricanes  blow  ? 

What  of  the  billow  and  blast? 
The  harbor  waits,  and  the  sailors  know 

They  shall  anchor  in  port  at  last. 

Life  and  the  power  of  its  pain  ; 

Life  and  the  doom  of  its  death  ; 
And  the  ghastly  ghosts  of  the  wandering  slain 

With  their  foul  and  pestilent  breath  ! 
What  if  it  sicken  and  fall  ? 

What  if  it  wither  and  die  ? 
It  only  goes  to  the  All  in  All 

In  the  worlds  of  the  Bye  and  Bye. 

Love  and  the  joys  of  its  trust ; 

Love  and  the  gold  of  its  gain  ; 
And  the  agonies  fierce  when  its  blossoms  are  dust 

And  its  raptures  have  perished  in  pain  ! 
What  if  it  wander  and  weep  ? 

What  if  it  murmur  and  moan  ? 
The  heart  of  the  Master  is  never  asleep, 

And  the  lover  shall  come  to  his  own. 


Cbe  ILtttle  JBos's  1>air.  n3 

Man  and  the  might  of  his  hope  ; 

Man  and  the  curse  of  his  care  ; 
And  the  footsteps  that  falter  and  fingers  that  grope 

In  the  dim  and  the  dusk  of  despair  ! 
What  if  he  stumble  and  fail  ? 

What  if  he  perish,  in  sooth  ? 
The  lights  are  above  him  ;  at  last  he  shall  scale 

All  the  hills  of  the  true  and  the  Truth  ! 


Stars  and  the  seas  of  the  night  ! 

Stars  and  the  deeps  of  the  dawn  ! 
And  the  dim  of  the  dusk  is  athrob  with  the  light 

For  the  ships  that  are  sailing  on  ! 
What  if  the  hurricanes  blow  ? 

What  of  the  billow  and  blast  ? 
The  harbor  waits,  and  the  sailors  know 

They  shall  anchor  in  port  at  last  ! 


THE  LITTLE   BOY'S  HAIR. 

TT  IS  mother  and  I  cut  the  little  boy's  hair  ! 

A      Hair  that  grew  where  the  years  begin, 
Bright  and  sunny  and  fondly  fair 

As  the  baby  dreams  it  was  tangled  in  ! 
And  tears  came  into  our  eyes  that  day, — 

Tears  for  the  baby  that  left  us  then,— 
For  oh,  we  knew  when  he  went  away 

He  never  would  come  to  our  home  again  I 


H4       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbweat  Country. 

His  mother  and  I  cut  the  little  boy's  hair  ! 

Twisted  curls  that  the  fairies  made, 
Hung  by  his  brows  in  the  breezes  where 

The  blessed  feet  of  the  children  played  ! 
It  woven  was  with  the  fancies  true, 

The  hopes  that  ever  with  childhood  dwell, 
And  held  the  joys  that  our  baby  knew, 

The  low,  sweet  laughter  he  loved  so  well  ! 

His  mother  and  I  cut  the  little  boy's  hair  ! 

Faces  grave  with  a  grief  sublime, 
Eyes  so  guilty  they  would  not  dare 

To  look  aloft  as  we  did  the  crime  ! 
Our  hands  upgathered  the  golden  glow, 

They  clutched  the  glories  miracylous  ! 
What  vandals  we  !     But  he  could  not  know 

The  deep  emotions  that  mastered  us  ! 

His  mother  and  I  cut  the  little  boy's  hair  ! 

"You,"  we  whispered,  "are  now  a  man  !  " 
Mourning  deep  in  our  hearts  the  rare 

Sweet  grace  that  grew  where  the  years  began  ! 
And  all  that  day  there  were  tears  that  shone 

Within  the  lids  of  our  tender  eyes, 
And  soft  we  wept  to  ourselves  alone 

Where  none  could  enter  and  sympathize. 

His  mother  and  I  cut  the  little  boy's  hair  ! 

Life  is  longer  than  children  know  ; 
Day  by  day  there  is  more  of  care 

Than  heaped  the  hearts  of  the  Long  Ago  ! 


Xittle  2>eao  3Bat>g.  115 

For  these  are  the  curls  that  we  cut  off  then, 
As  dear  as  the  boy  with  his  dreams  of  Good, 

Who  laid  them  by  for  the  toils  of  men, 
In  the  long-lost  years  of  his  babyhood  ! 


THE  LITTLE  DEAD  BABY. 

TTHERE  'S  a  little  dead  baby  just  over  the  way, 
For  a  little  white  ribbon  hangs  down  by  the 

door, 

And  the  house  that  was  happy  with  music  and  play 

Is  encompassed  with  gloom  and  rejoices  no  more  ; 

And  the  shutters  are  closed  and  the  curtains  are 

drawn, 

And  the  bird  by  the  window  is  songless  to-day  ; 
For  the  bright  of  the  blossoms  went  out  at  the 

dawn 
With  the  little  dead  baby  just  over  the  way. 

There  's  a  little  dead  baby  just  over  the  way, 

And  a  little  white  coffin  all  hidden  from  view  ; 
And  a  poor  little  mother  kneels  lowly  to  pray 

By  the  beautiful  face  of  the  baby  she  knew  ; 
But  the  Lord  of  her  soul  with  a  gladness  unguessed 

To  her  heart  gives  a  joy  that  shall  anguish  allay  ; 
And  her  faith  lives  as  pure  as  the  blooms  on  the 
breast 

Of  the  little  dead  baby  just  over  the  way. 

There  's  a  little  dead  baby  just  over  the  way, 
And  a  desolate  look  never  noticed  before  ; 


n6       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Countrg. 

And  the  children  are  silent,  and  tearfully  say, 

"  The  baby  won't  laugh  at  our  pranks  any  more  !  " 
And  the  old  people  walk  with  a  sorrowful  tread 
As  the  tears  of   regret  down   the  faded  cheeks 

stray, 
For  they  worshipped  each  hair  on  the  bright  curly 

head 
Of  the  little  dead  baby  just  over  the  way. 

There  's  a  little  dead  baby  just  over  the  way, 

And  the  hushes  of  awestricken  silences  throng 
Through  the  jest  of  the  crowd  and  the  merriment  gay 

With  the  rapture  and  revel  of  laughter  and  song  ; 
And  the  world  bows  its  head  with  a  sorrowful  face 

Where  the  stars  of  compassion  their  glories  array, 
While  the  angels  come  down  full  of  love  to  the 
place 

Of  the  little  dead  baby  just  over  the  way. 

Oh,  the  little  dead  baby  just  over  the  way  ! 
There  's  a  Presence  that  clothes  it  with  dearness 

divine  ; 
And  I  feel  in  my  heart  the  omnipotent  sway 

Of   the  grief  I  should  know  if  that  baby  were 

mine  ! 
And  I  mourn  with   the  mourning,  and  ask  from 

above 

That  the  Father  will  comfort  when  sorrows  dis 
may, 

While  my  soul  is  a  fountain  that  flows  full  of  love 
For  the  little  dead  baby  just  over  the  way  ! 


RENUNCIATION. 

T/'  ISS  me,  love,  before  you  leave  me  ! 
•*•  *•     Here  the  cherished  hope  shall  end  ; 
I  shall  bravely,  though  it  grieve  me, 

Lose  the  lover  in  the  friend  ! 
Forward  where  your  longings  lift  you  ! 

Nay,  I  '11  never  bar  the  way  ! 
May  the  joyous  breezes  drift  you 

To  the  harbor  lights  of  day  ! 

Kiss  me,  love,  before  you  leave  me  ! 

To  your  heart  once  fold  me  fast ! 
Though  the  future  may  deceive  me, 

I  shall  treasure  still  the  past ! 
What  shall  matter  wintry  weather  ? 

Memory  is  deathless  youth  ; 
We  shall  tread  the  years  together, 

Down  the  dewy  slopes  of  truth  ! 

Kiss  me,  love,  before  you  leave  me  ! 

These  poor  tears  of  mine  are  naught, 
Yet  this  parting  shall  bereave  me 

Of  the  dearest  things  I  thought ; 
But  nor  will  nor  wish  may  falter  ! 

Shall  the  wooed  be  less  than  wife  ? 
Here  I  lay  upon  the  altar 

All  the  longings  of  my  life  ! 
117 


n8       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Kiss  me,  love,  before  you  leave  me  ! 

These  are  only  foolish  themes  ! 
May  the  price  I  pay  achieve  me 

Crowns  for  all  your  hopes  and  dreams  ; 
But  remember  what  was  given  : 

One  sad  woman  slew  her  love, 
Faced  her  fate,  and  left  her  heaven, — 

You  shall  gain  the  heights  above  ! 

Kiss  me,  love,  before  you  leave  me  ! 

Here  the  cherished  hope  shall  end  ; 
I  shall  bravely,  though  it  grieve  me, 

Lose  the  lover  in  the  friend  ! 
Forward  where  your  longings  lift  you  ! 

Nay,  I  '11  never  bar  the  way  ! 
May  the  joyous  breezes  drift  you 

To  the  harbor  lights  of  day  ! 


"THERE,    MY    HEART,    BE    STILL    A 
MINUTE." 

'T^HERE,  my  heart,  be  still  a  minute  ; 

•*•       Don't  you  worry  so  ! 
There  's  a  song  if  we  begin  it 

Everywhere  we  go  ! 
What  if  days  of  happy  boy-time 

Never  come  again  ? 
We  shall  find  the  perfect  joy-time 

Down  the  ways  of  men  ! 


"Cbere,  ms  "fceart,  Me  Still  a  dfcinute."     119 

When  the  darkest  hours  are  over, 

Morn  with  fingers  bright 
Shall  the  sweetest  blooms  discover, 

Grown  within  the  night  ; 
Never  ruin,  but  entwined  it 

Vines  of  sympathy  ; 
Never  cloud,  but  stars  behind  it 

Lit  the  tender  sky  ! 

Yours  and  mine  is  friendship  stronger 

Than  the  world  receives  ; 
You  and  I  are  comrades  longer 

Than  the  world  believes  ; 
You  rejoice  in  all  my  gladness, 

Every  laugh  I  know  ; 
Let  me  banish  all  your  sadness, — 

Don't  you  worry  so  ! 

Let  your  lips  forget  to  quiver  ; 

Brush  the  tears  away  ! 
Never  hour  but  was  a  giver 

Of  the  glad  and  gay  ! 
What  's  the  use  of  getting  gloomy, 

When  the  skies  are  blue  ? 
All  the  meadow  lands  are  bloomy 

For  the  likes  of  you  ! 

There,  my  heart,  be  still  a  minute  ; 

Don't  you  worry  so  ! 
There  's  a  song  if  we  begin  it 

Everywhere  we  go  ! 


Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

What  if  days  of  happy  boy-time 

Never  come  again  ? 
We  shall  find  the  perfect  joy-time 

Down  the  wavs  of  men  ! 


A  RAMBLE. 

\1(  TE  wandered  with  fond  feet  beyond  the  town 
V  *       And   all  the   stifled    streets   of   dust    and 

smoke, 
Until  we  rested  in  the  country  fields. 

It  was  a  place  where  angels  might  have  walked  : 
A  rounded  vale  of  solitude  and  song, 
That  weary  souls  of  longing  fondly  dream 
When  fainting  with  the  fevers  of  their  toil 
And  bending  with  the  burdens  of  the  years. 
Green  slopes  of  summer  grasses,  kindly  wreathed 
With  speckled  lawns  of  clovers  red  and  white, 
Spread  their  soft  carpets  on  the  bounding  earth 
Where  playful  sheep  and  lowing  cattle  grazed. 
An  infant  stream  with  limpid  waters  low 
Crept  slowly  through  the  mossy  margins  wide, 
And  singing  kissed  the  pebbles  with  kind  lips 
That  lingered  on  the  ripples.     Far  above, 
The  ancient,  gabled  mill  with  throbbing  wheels 
Beat  sombre  music  from  the  careless  waves. 
A  brooding  elm  hung  over,  in  whose  shade 
The  sultry  hours  of  sleepy  silence  wane, 
And  all  the  heart's  dear  yearnings  are  at  rest. 


TUnforgetting.  121 

Birds  in  the  scattered  trees  companionless 

Heaped  lullabies  upon  the  tender  air, 

While  wide-winged  swallows  touched  the  water's 

breast 

And  twittered  in  their  merry  ecstasies. 
Some  lonely  quail  with  cheerful  whistle  called 
His  absent  comrade  from  the  bearded  field. 
While  over  all  the  arching  sky  of  blue 
In  rapture  caught  the  valley  in  its  arms 
And  smoothed  the  tiny  wrinkles  from  its  brow. 

And  there  we  two,  the  friends  of  other  years 
When  life  was  in  the  distance  of  our  dreams, 
Lay  on  the  grasses  all  that  summer  day 
And  talked  again  of  joys  we  used  to  know, 
Of  longings  crushed  and  tender  hopes  that  died, 
And  years  that  fled  as  dreams  go  down  the  night ; 
Till  shadows  brought  the  dewy  breath  of  eve 
And  twilight  drove  us  from  the  lovely  scene, 
With  such  fond  pleasures  ringing  in  our  hearts 
As  cheered  our  bosoms  in  the  times  of  yore, 
When  boyhood  looked  beyond  his  foolish  ways 
And  dreamed  of  glory  in  the  years  to  be. 

UNFORGETTING. 

T7ORGET  thee,  dearest  ?     Till  the  tide 

Forgets  the  orb  that  lifts  the  sea, 

My  heart  shall  leap  with  naught  beside 

Abiding  thoughts  of  thee, — of  thee  ! 


122       Songe  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Until  the  rose  forgets  the  dew 

That  cools  and  feeds  with  fine  control, 

My  soul  shall  know,  as  once  it  knew, 
The  raptures  of  a  kindred  soul. 


Till  longing  sleeps  and  love  is  dead 
And  darkness  falls  and  griefs  destroy, 

My  heart  shall  treasure  all  we  said 
And  hold  our  happy  hopes  of  joy. 

Through  all  the  days  I  wander  where 
Thy  presence  makes  a  Paradise  ; 

Through  all  the  nights  I  slumber  there 
Beneath  the  heavens  of  thine  eyes. 

Though  suns  should  leap  across  our  ways 

And  starry  systems  intervene, 
My  soul  would  break  each  bond  that  stays, 

And  scale  the  heights  that  rise  between. 

What  if  a  thousand  worlds  upheave  ? 

The  lover's  heart  will  find  his  own, 
And,  though  a  storm-tossed  absence  grieve, 

He  clasps  her,  and  is  not  alone. 

Each  moment  I  caress  thy  face, 

Each  moment  feel  thy  hands  in  mine, 

Each  moment  in  thy  close  embrace 
I  thrill  with  kisses  thrice  divine. 


jflMnor  CborD.  123 


And  all  the  hours  from  dark  to  dawn, 
And  all  from  dawn  to  dark,  I  see 

Thy  darling  face,  and  wander  on 
Enchanted  paths  that  lead  to  thee. 

Nay,  dear,  think  not  I  can  forget  ; 

The  days  may  hasten  o'er  the  hill, 
The  nights  may  come  with  darkness,  yet 

My  heart  shall  hold  thee,  —  hold  thee  still  ! 


THE  MINOR  CHORD. 

A  sweet  bird  sings 
In  prison  shadows  where  the  griefs  are  sorest, 

And  gladly  rings 
The  wondrous  music  of  his  native  forest  ; 

But  all  his  songs 
Breathe  evermore  some  minor  strain  of  sadness, 

And  through  them  throngs 
No  more  the  old  free  melody  of  gladness  ; 

For  something  sobs  and  sighs 

In  every  song  he  tries. 
His  lay  seems  quite  the  sweetest  ever  heard, 

But  oh,  the  bird,  the  bird  ! 

A  singer  sings, 
Far  from  the  days  of  childhood  glad  and  golden, 

Fantastic  things 
The  angels  taught  him  in  the  cycles  olden  ; 

But  anguish  dwells 


124        Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

In  every  strain  his  throbbing  bosom  utters, 

And  sorrow  swells 
In  every  note  that  from  him  falls  and  nutters  ; 

In  every  song  he  knows 

Sob  life's  unceasing  woes. 
They  say  his  harmonies  forever  linger  ; 

But  oh,  the  sad,  sad  singer  ! 

There  are  no  songs 

Praiseworthy   save  the   singer's    heart   has  known 
them  ; 

Their  truth  belongs 
Alone  and  only  to  the  lives  that  own  them  ! 

In  every  note 
Of  touching  tenderness  that  overmasters, 

Divinely  float 
The  voiceless  anthems  of  unnamed  disasters, — 

In  every  perfect  strain, 

Some  hope  that  died  in  pain  ! 
Do  they  forget,  who  crown  the  ones  that  bring  them, 

The  prices  paid  to  sing  them  ? 

IN  THE  NIGHT. 

,  the  stillness  and  the  sweetness  of  the  night ! 
How    the    soul    arousing    rises    from    the 

mysteries  of  dreams, 
Ere   the  beautifying   brightness  of   the   morning's 

purple  light 

Through  the  golden  vales  of  glory  like  a  flooded 
river  streams  ! 


1fn  tbe  tfUgbt.  125 

Then  the  hand  of  some  glad  angel  with  a  tender 

touch  unbars 
All  the  fairy  fields  of  fancy  with  unfading  blooms 

bedight, 
And  we  wander  there  as  happy  as  the  twinkles  of 

the  stars, 
In  the  stillness  and  the  sweetness  of  the  night. 

In  the  stillness  and  the  sweetness  of  the  night 
Comes  a  holier  inspiration  than  the  days  can  ever 

know, 

And    seraphic  shapes    of   shadow   in   their   glory- 
garments  white 
Summon  memories  of  music  from  the  lyric  Long 

Ago; 
Oh,  the  gates  of  heaven  open,  and  the  happy  hosts 

of  joy 
Soothe  the  heart  away  from  sorrow  with  their 

melodies  of  might, 
Till  the  years  are  young  forever  and  the  old  man  is 

a  boy, 
In  the  stillness  and  the  sweetness  of  the  night ! 

In  the  stillness  and  the  sweetness  of  the  night 
Faintly  sound  the  witching  murmurs  of  a  thou 
sand  eerie  things 

From  the  thrilling  throats  of  darkness  on  the  forest- 
haloed  height 

And  the  leaping  lips  of  laughter  where  the  rest 
less  river  sings ; 


i26       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Oh,  the  voices  of  the  ages  God's  prophetic  lessons 

teach 
To  the  heavy  heart  that  hungers  for  the  rhapsodies 

of  right, 
And  the  secrets  of  the  silence  lisp  their  hopes  in 

happy  speech, 
In  the  stillness  and  the  sweetness  of  the  night  ! 

In  the  stillness  and  the  sweetness  of  the  night, 
Oh,  the  soul  breaks  out  of  prison  in  a  glorified 

release 
From  the  fetters  of  its  weakness  and  the  bondage 

of  its  blight, 
To  the  blessed  benedictions  and  the  plenitudes 

of  peace  ! 
And  on  wings  of  joyous  rapture,  far   among  the 

great  and  good, 
How  it  soars  with  love  and  longing  to  its  ancient 

palace  bright, 
And  beholds  cherubic  wonders   only   known  and 

understood 
In  the  stillness  and  the  sweetness  of  the  night ! 


SAVE  THE  BOYS. 

AVE  the  boys  ;  they  make  the  treasures  ! 

Vain  is  all  thy  strain  and  striving, 
Worthless  all  thy  narrow  measures 

Made  to  further  thrift  and  thriving. 
Souls  are  priceless  ;  of  thy  brother, 

Of  his  sons,  thou  art  the  keeper ; 
Save  the  boys  ;  endeavors  other 

Are  unworthier  and  cheaper. 

Save  the  boys  ;  they  make  the  nations  ! 

Haste  the  marches  up  and  onward  ; 
Banish  all  the  fierce  temptations 

From  the  paths  we  travel  dawnward ; 
Laws  can  break  each  galling  fetter  ; 

Love  can  lift  from  shame  and  scorning  , 
Save  the  boys  ;  and  purer,  better 

Men  shall  reach  the  Gates  of  Morning. 

Save  the  boys  ;  they  make  the  future  ! 

Hearts  and  lives  and  hopes  are  pleading 
For  the  death  of  sins  that  nurture 

Curse  and  crime  for  hosts  succeeding  ; 
Millions  low  in  prayer  are  craving 

Good  which  fills  the  earth  with  leaven  ; 
Save  the  boys  ;  and  in  their  saving, 

Save  the  human  race  for  heaven  ! 

Save  the  boys  ;  they  make  the  ages  ! 
Conquer  Vice  with  Virtue's  rigor  ; 

127 


i28       Soiiflg  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Countrg. 

Battle  brutishness  like  sages  ; 

Swing  the  scythe  of  Truth  with  vigor. 
Duty,  now  !     Be  coward  never  ! 

Time  shall  tell  thy  fame  in  story  ; 
Save  the  boys  ;  the  Great  Forever 

Looks  to  thee  and  them  for  glory  ! 


TAKE  IT  EASY! 

T^AKEiteasy!     What's  the  use 

Of  your  haste  and  hurry  ? 
Life  can  offer  no  excuse 

For  the  waste  of  worry  ; 
When  you  get  to  mixing  things 

Hope  becomes  a  bubble, 
For  there  's  never  heart  that  sings 

O'er  the  tears  of  trouble. 

Take  it  easy  !     He  that  frets 

Never  knows  the  pleasures, 
And  the  richest  poorest  gets 

In  love's  golden  treasures  ; 
If  to  sadness  you  are  cold, 

She  from  you  will  sever  ; 
Treat  her  kindly,  and  the  old 

Jade  will  stay  forever  ! 

Take  it  easy  !     Life  's  a  crown, — 
Like  a  monarch  wear  it  ; 

If  a  burden  weight  it  down, 
Happy  be  and  bear  it ! 


2,ove.  129 


Drink  the  nectars  from  the  skies, 
Which  the  gods  bequeath  you  ! 

And  in  rapture  you  shall  rise 
Leaving  earth  beneath  you  ! 

Flowers  of  beauty  bloom  and  bless 

All  the  ways  you  wander, 
And  the  songs  of  blessedness 

Chime  from  over  yonder. 
Don't  get  blue  !   The  world  is  bright, 

Beautiful,  and  breezy  ; 
Life  is  but  one  long  delight 

If,  —  you  take  it  easy  ! 


MY   LOVE. 

T  CRIED  with  a  cry  to  my  love  ; 
•*•      And  my  soul  with  a  jubilant  thrill 
Strode  over  the  oceans  between  her  and  me, 

And  over  the  mountains  of  ill ; 
But  never  an  answer  arose  from  her  lips, 

And  never  a  joyous  reply 
Came  out  of  the  distance  and  tenderly  hushed 

The  terrible  sob  of  the  cry. 

I  prayed  with  a  prayer  to  my  love  ; 

And  high  on  the  wings  of  its  hope 
My  heart  hurried  far  through  the  valleys  of  time 

And  over  eternity's  slope  ; 
But  she  uttered  no  word  where  the  silences  lay 

To  banish  my  yearning  despair, 


130       Songs  from  tbc  Soutbwcst  Country. 

And  lost  in  the  seas  where  the  surges  are  vast 
Were  the  throbs  of  my  desperate  prayer. 

I  sang  with  a  song  to  my  love, 

Under  the  stars  and  the  night, 
And  the  feet  of  my  song  o'er,  the  ways  of  the  world 

Sped  swift  in  their  longings  for  light ; 
And  when  she  drew  near  in  the  purples  of  dawn, 

It  seemed  I  had  known  her  so  long, — 
This  heart  of  my  heart  and  this  soul  of  my  soul 

That  heeded  my  summons  of  song  ! 

Not  the  terror  of  cry,  not  the  pathos  of  prayer, 

Did  she  hear  in  the  silences  wide, 
But  she  hastened  away  at  the  carols  of  song 

With  her  jubilant  feet  to  my  side  ; 
I  know  not,  I  know  not,  the  land  or  the  sea, 

The  mountain  or  stream  she  had  known  ; 
I  know  not  the  path  that  she  came, — but  I  know 

That  she  came,  and  is  only  my  own  ! 


A  HEALTH. 

AT"  OUR  health  as  you  leave  us  ! 
•^       We  know  what  you  think, — 
Yes,  that  is  man's  Babel, — 

No  wonder  you  shrink  ! 
'T  is  right  to  be  happy  ? 

Aye,  truly,  I  hold, 
And  life  has  more  in  it 

Than  laurels  and  gold. 


2/oneliness.  131 

Then  up  with  life's  cup, — 

Here  's  a  bumper  to  gladden  ! 

May  the  sorrows  that  dance 

On  the  highways  of  chance 

Never  gather  so  near  as  to  sadden  ; 

Wherever  you  linger,  wherever  you  stray, 

May  roses  and  lilies  entangle  your  way  ! 

It  is  joy  that  I  wish  you, 

Unclouded  by  care  ; 
It  is  crowning  of  purpose, 

Fulfilling  of  prayer  ; 
It  is  all  that  you  hope  for 

And  all  that  you  deem 
The  love  of  your  longing, 

The  dear  of  your  dream  ! 

Then  up  with  life's  cup  ! 

There  is  wine  in  the  chalice  ! 
Let  us  rouse  us  a  laugh 
As  we  cheerily  quaff 

Like  a  thirsty  old  king  in  his  palace. 
Your  health,  your  good  health  !     'T  is  enough 

for  your  worry 
To  capture  the  pleasures  as  onward  you  hurry. 

LONELINESS. 

AD  she  is,  and  the  glowing  embers 
Fancy  fired  in  the  olden  days 
All  are  ashes,  and  life  remembers 
Few,  indeed,  of  her  words  and  ways. 


Songs  from  tbe  Southwest  Country. 

It  was  eve  and  the  year  was  vernal, 

Soft  the  breeze,  and  the  sky  was  fair, — 

Hearts  are  hungry  and  love  eternal, — 
Oh,  the  tints  of  her  face  and  hair  ! 

Slow  we  walked  with  our  happy  faces 
Down  the  deeps  of  the  darkened  gloom, 

And  our  souls  in  their  love-embraces 
Wedded  there  in  the  orchard  bloom. 

It  was  nothing  !  A  hand-clasp  only, 
Just  a  kiss  in  the  shadows  low  ; 

But  rny  heart  when  she  went  was  lonely, 
And  I  wept  in  my  sorrow  so. 

It  was  nothing  !  But  from  me  never 
Lifts  the  touch  of  her  tender  lips  ; 

Through  my  veins  there  will  romp  forever 
Thrills  that  fell  from  her  finger-tips  ! 

It  was  nothing  !     We  parted, — parted, — 
Ne'er  to  meet  in  the  world  again  ; 

She  with  love  of  the  good  glad-hearted, 
I  so  sad  with  the  griefs  of  men. 

Dead  she  is,  and  she  lies  out  yonder 
Cold  as  the  gravestones  are  and  white  ; 

But  forever  our  souls  shall  wander 

Hand  in  hand  through  the  fields  of  light  ! 


IN   MEMORY  OF  EUGENE  FIELD. 

(Died  Nov.  4,  1895.) 

"I  \T  ELL,  bear  the  empty  cage  away  ; 
*  *       Our  lips  with  wondrous  woes  are  white  ; 
The  bird  that  warbled  all  the  day 
Has  left  us  lonely  in  the  night. 

He  sang  of  fields  and  orchard  blooms, 
And  groves  that  gave  delightful  shade  ; 

Of  perfect  flowers  whose  fond  perfumes 
Fell  where  delighted  children  played. 

The  raptures  of  the  homely  joys 
Romped  in  his  tender  roundelays, 

And  fun  and  frolic  like  a  boy's 
Beside  him  wandered  all  his  ways. 

Glad  children  paused  from  play  to  hear 
The  pipes  melodious  that  he  blew, 

And  Age  with  happy  step  drew  near 
To  know  forgotten  dreams  anew. 

His  music  waked  the  smiles  that  leap 
From  joyous  deeps  of  angel  eyes, 

And  held  the  hopes  that  happy  creep 
From  hearts  as  pure  as  Paradise. 

133 


134       Songs  from  tbc  Soutbwest  Country. 

The  race  has  lost  a  fondest  friend, 

The  children  one  that  laughed  with  them, 

The  countless  hosts  in  sorrow  blend 
Their  sobs  to  sound  his  requiem. 

Yes,  bear  the  empty  cage  away  ! 

Our  lips  with  wondrous  woes  are  white  ; 
The  bird  that  warbled  all  the  day 

Has  left  us  lonely  in  the  night. 


A  SUPPLIANT. 

S~\  GOD  !  When  Dreams  of  Good  are  dead, 
^•^     And  buried  low  they  lie, — 
When  Hope  is  gone  and  Love  is  fled, — 
Then  let  me  die  ! 

The  heart  may  sing  o'er  faded  flowers, 

Beside  the  bursting  leaf  ; 
But  tears  unceasing  sob  the  hours 

Of  Winter's  grief. 

The  soul  with  lofty  courage  weds 

Where  mountains  meet  the  sun, 

But  where  the  prairie's  level  spreads 
It  sinks  undone. 

The  night  with  all  its  wail  and  woe, 
Bleak  winds  and  bitter  skies, 

Forgets  the  darkness  if  it  know 
The  morn  shall  rise. 


dfcotberboofc.  135 

Life  undismayed  can  feel  the  thorn 

And  walk  the  plains  by  night, 
If  blossom,  mountain-side,  and  morn 

Be  still  in  sight. 

When  dreams  of  better  things  are  dead, 

And  buried  low  they  lie, — 
When  Hope  is  gone  and  Love  is  fled, — 

Then  let  me  die  ! 

MOTHERHOOD. 

TV/T  OTHERHOOD  !  Motherhood  ! 
***•     More  than  any  brotherhood, 
More  than  any  other  hood 

Underneath  the  skies  ; 
Let  me  sing  a  song  to  you, 
Glad  and  true  and  strong  to  you, 
Till  the  stars  belong  to  you, 

Earth  and  Paradise  ! 

More  than  glees  and  gratitudes 
Are  your  sweet  beatitudes, 
Born  in  Heaven's  latitudes, 

Where  the  joys  abide  ; 
Angel  hearts  that  treasure  you 
Ever  come  to  pleasure  you, 
Bringing  gifts  that  measure  you 

With  the  glorified. 

Then  a  happy  song  to  you 
While  the  joys  belong  to  you 


136       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbweat  Country. 

And  no  shade  of  wrong  to  you 

Floods  the  days  with  tears  ! 
Motherhood  !  Motherhood  ! 
More  than  any  brotherhood, 
More  than  any  other  hood, 

Laughing  through  the  years  ! 

THE  COMMONPLACES. 

A  H,  the  childish  commonplaces  !     Like  the  old 
^*-  familiar  faces, 

How  they  peep  forever  outward  from  the  skies  of 

Long  Ago, 
And  their  rhapsodies  of  laughter  follow  fondly  on 

and  after 

All  the  winding  ways  of  glory  that  our  fairest 
fancies  know  ! 

Oh,  the  happy  commonplaces  !     How  remembrance 

interlaces 
In  the  sombre  soul  of  shadow  all  the  shine  it 

ever  knew, 
Till  the  yearning  years  of  sorrow  from  their  blessed 

brothers  borrow 

All  the   raptures  that  with  magic  throw  a  halo 
over  you  ! 

And  the  joyous  commonplaces  !     How  their  music 

madly  races 

Through  the  heart  and  soul  aweary,  and  the  joys 
abiding  brings  ; 


Commonplaces.  137 

For  from  out  the  gates  of  golden,  from  the  cycles 

bright  and  olden, 

Comes  the  angel  of  Jehovah  with  the  cherubim 
and  sings  ! 

And  the  careless  commonplaces  !     Full  of  laugh 
ter's  gladdest  graces, 
How  the  murmurs  of  their  voices  fall  across  the 

ways  we  go, 
And  the  carols   they  are  singing,  rich   and  royal 

chorus  bringing, 

Soothe  the  bruises  of  the  battle  and  the  weary 
wounds  of  woe  ! 

Oh,  from  you  I  cannot  sever  !     And  forever  and 

forever 
I  shall  drink  your  magic  music,  gaze  upon  your 

forms  divine, 
Till  again  with  glad  embraces  we  shall  meet,  O 

Commonplaces, 

And  shall  wander  on  unwearied  where  the  stars 
of  heaven  shine  ! 


JOY  ABIDES. 

HPHE  Troubles  are  feathers  that  flee 
•*•       O'er  Pleasure's  unchangeable  sea, 
The  bubbles  that  darken  the  wave, 

The  brambles  that  tangle  the  wild  ; 
But  Hope  is  a  blossom  that  gladdens  the  grave, 

And  Life  is  the  laugh  of  a  child. 


138       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbweet  Country. 

The  Sorrows  that  sadden  us  here 
Like  mists  of  the  morn  disappear  ; 
For  Joy  with  her  light  and  her  love 

Fills  all  of  the  world  with  her  glees, 
And  mortals  in  ships  that  are  launched  from  above 

Sail  over  eternity's  seas. 

Then  sing  all  the  lullabies  long 
That  Pleasure  is  crooning  in  song  ! 
They  silence  the  clatter  and  din 

That  echo  where  error  has  trod  ; 
If  Hate  be  as  old  as  the  demons  of  sin, 

Yet  Love  is  enduring  as  God  ! 


THE  HOURS. 

"\X  flTH  bandaged  eyes  beside  the  way  I  stood, 
Where    one    by   one   in   swift   procession 

passed 

The  muffled  hours  and  tossed  their  gifts  at  me, — 
Crowns,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  what  they  all  contain. 
They  mocked   my  hands  that  beat  the  darkness 

there, 

Reclaimed  their  bounties,  and  with  savage  scorn 
And  taunts  of  bitterness  went  o'er  the  hills. 
But  all  was  not  denied  me  ;  as  I  clutched 
In  deep  anxiety  of  groping  hands, 
I  caught  some  ribbon,  rose,  or  wisp  of  hair, 
Some  screed  of  song,  some  sentence  of  the  heart, 


139 

Some  child's  fond  plaything  sanctified  with  love, 
But  mourned  for  crowns  my  blindness  could  not 

gain. 

And  when  my  heart  was  weary  with  its  years, 
Then  Wisdom  came  and  made  mine  eyes  to  see  ; 
And  lo,  my  trinkets  were  the  keys  of  life, 
More  precious  than  the  stars  for  which  I  wept ! 


UNDISMAYED. 

A  S  long  as  the  Spring  with  her  blossoms 
**•     Bends  over  the  beautiful  lea, — 
As  long  as  the  bird  with  its  music 

Sings  all  of  its  carols  for  me, — 
My  soul  for  its  longings  shall  struggle, 

My  Hope  battle  on  with  a  will, 
Till  the  blossoms  of  Spring  are  all  faded, — 

The  bird  and  its  music  are  still ! 


As  long  as  the  song  of  the  singer 

Sounds  over  the  valleys  of  earth, — 
As  long  as  the  lips  of  the  lover 

Are  red  with  the  raptures  of  mirth, — 
My  heart  shall  renew  its  endeavor, 

My  life  in  its  longing  shall  trust, 
Till  the  song  of  the  singer  is  weary, 

And  Love  is  a  dream  of  the  dust ! 


ALAS,  MY  OWN    HARP! 

A  LAS,  my  own  Harp  !    In  the  shadows  of  night 
**•     'T  is  our  fortune  to  sing  all  the  numbers  we 

know, 

And  murmur  in  darkness  the  songs  of  delight 
That  shall  soften  our  sadness  and  weaken  our 

woe. 

But  cease  not  thy  strains  !     We  forever  will  pour 
From  the  deeps  of  our  days,  full  of  yearning  and 

youth, 

Though   Fame  should  encircle  our  brows  never 
more, 
Sweet  songs  that  are  happy  with  honor  and  truth  ! 

Let  the  strains  of  thy  measures  unceasingly  flow, 
Though  marred  in  their  music  by  murmurs  of 

mine  ; 
Should  Glory  ne'er  crown  them,  't  will  cheer  thee  to 

know 
Love  hath  blest  with  her  roses  these  carols  of 

thine  ; 
Then  sway  the   sweet  strings !     Let  the  melodies 

move 

With  the  raptures  that  never  seem  harsh  or  un 
couth  ; 

Some  heart  full  of  longing  shall  listen  and  prove 
How  great  are  the  songs  of  thine  honor  and  truth  ! 
140 


JSeneatb  tbe  pines. 
FAITH. 

T    IKE  a  comet  strange  and  wild, 

•^     Through  the  trackless  regions  vast 

Reels  the  Soul  from  ages  past, 
God's  companion,  Heaven's  child  ; 
Nothing  tells  it  of  the  great 

Planets  where  it  rolled  and  whirled  ; 
Nothing  knows  it  of  the  fate 

That  has  flung  it  on  the  world. 
Here  it  wanders  dark  or  dim 

Till  it  creeps  apart  alone, 
Past  the  far  horizon's  rim 

Through  eternities  unknown  ; 
But  He  brought  it  from  the  deep, — 
He  will  all  its  wanderings  keep, 
And  it  never  once  shall  move 
From  His  law  or  from  His  love  ! 


BENEATH  THE  PINES. 

"DENEATH  the  Pines  on  drowsy  wings, 
*~*     My  sleepy  hammock  sways  and  swings, 

While  through  half-open,  half-shut  eyes 

Creep  lazily  the  far-off  skies 
And  all  the  world  that  sobs  and  sings. 

From  Music's  feather- throated  kings, 
A  perfect  chorus  rising  rings 


142       Sonss  from  tbe  Southwest  Country. 

And  soothes  me  with  its  lullabies, 
Beneath  the  Pines. 

O  happy  hours  !     An  angel  brings 
Glad  visions  of  divinest  things, 
Where  half  asleep  I  hear  the  cries 
Of  Nature's  anthems  gently  rise, 
And  dream  of  never-fading  springs, 
Beneath  the  Pines  ! 


IN  LOTUS  LAND. 

IN  Lotus  Land  the  lazy  beams 
Fall  slothfully,  the  dawdling  streams 
Creep  sluggishly  from  hill  to  sea, 
And  sweet  oblivion  sleepily 
The  soul  from  toil  and  care  redeems. 

No  guilt  or  guile  of  sinful  themes, 
No  glare  of  Passion's  lurid  gleams, 
Turns  innocence  to  misery, 
In  Lotus  Land. 

O  Life,  where  love  unsated  seems, 
Where  savage  wrong  triumphant  teems, 
Where  all  unwelcome  things  that  be 
Bring  deathless  tears  and  woes  to  thee, 
Forsake  thy  cares  and  clasp  thy  dreams 
In  Lotus  Land  ! 


life's  GrinftE.  143 

AN  EPITAPH. 

A  BOVE  the  monumented  dead 
•**•     I  stooped  and  read  : 

"  This  was  a  king  ! 

His  empire  was  the  latest  : 
He  ruled  himself  !  " 

Let  minstrels  come  and  sing  ! 

Let  monarchs  call  him  greatest  ! 

Not  power  nor  pelf, 
Not  glory  gathered  from  an  earthly  thing, 

O  man  of  might,  can  ever  closely  draw 

So  vast  a  rebel  to  the  rule  of  law  ! 

Thou  wast  a  prince  whose  far  dominions  spread 

Before  the  living  and  beyond  the  dead  ! 


LIFE'S  TRINITY. 


T    IFE  sinned  in  childhood,  and  with  anguish  sore 
1*-*     Crept  slowly  outward  through  a  hopeless  way  ; 
Sweet  love  and  laughter  joyed  its  lips  no  more  ; 
The  Sword  of  Flame  barred  Eden's  Yesterday  ! 


A  Saviour  comes  from  mangers  of  the  Beast, 
With  modest  bearing,  clothed  in  coarse  array, 

Is  without  resting-place,  esteemed  the  least, 
Thorn-crowned  and  crucified  :  He  is  To-day. 


144       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

The  tomb  yields  glories  of  God's  endless  power ; 

Life  knows  guilt  lost  and  hope  bestowed  again  ; 
The  night  fades  out,  and  morning  hour  by  hour 

Opes  wider  still  To-morrow's  gates  for  men  ! 

FORSAKEN. 

T    OVE  one  day  bade  us  both  good-bye, — 
*-*     The  old,  old  Love  that  we  knew  so  well  ! 

Flushed  with  anger  he  could  not  quell, 
He  would  not  list  to  our  lonely  cry. 

Oh  the  sorrow,  the  sob,  and  sigh  ! 

The  ghastly  horror  and  hate  of  hell  ! 
Love  one  day  bade  us  both  good-bye, — 

The  old,  old  Love  that  we  knew  so  well ! 

Ah,  we  never  may  scale  the  sky 

Where  the  darling  dreams  of  our  fancies  dwell, 
And  we  may  never  with  rapture  swell 

Anthems  caroled  by  hosts  on  high  : 

Love  one  day  bade  us  both  good-bye  ! 

BUD  AND  BLOOM. 

STREAMS  that  change  to  bud  and  bloom, 

That  bless  the  desert  lands, 
Your  loving  waters  find  their  doom 

Beneath  the  burning  sands, 
But  worlds  of  green  and  grasses  grow 
Where'er  your  benedictions  flow  ! 


3Lox>e  and  2>eatb.  145 

So  may  the  currents  of  mine  hours 

Yield  only  gifts  of  love, 
Till  where  they  flow  the  fruits  and  flowers 

Of  gladness  rise  above  : 
What  though  the  desert  be  their  doom, 
O  streams  that  change  to  bud  and  bloom  ! 


THE  MUSICIAN. 

HE  plays  ;  and  from  her  finger-tips 
Falls  music  little  children  know  ; 
She  sings  ;  and  from  her  happy  lips 
Leaps  laughter  of  the  Long  Ago  ! 

Ah,  singer,  there  is  that  in  thine 
Which  breathes  a  music  half  divine, 
And  leaping  in  thy  strains  there  seems 
The  voice  of  long-forgotten  dreams, 
Till  life  forsakes  the  ways  of  men 
And  laughs  a  careless  child  again  ! 


LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

A     SHAPELESS    Form   through   shining  ways 
"         of  light 

Sped  swiftly,  far  from  Hate  and  Horror  flown, 
And  where  Love  ruled  the  armied  angels  white 
Dropt  his  dread  spear  and  climbed  the  golden 
throne. 


146       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

"  Hence,  Monster,"  Love  commanded.     "  Nay,  not 

so," 
Death  answered  him  ;   "  my  brother,  thou  shalt 

share 

Thy  realms  with  me."     And,  sceptre-laden,  lo, 
Transformed  he  stood,  the  fairest  angel  there  ! 


DEATH. 

WHERE  meet  the  Bounded  and  the  Boundless 
Good, 

A  weary  Soul  that  earth's  deep  anguish  knew, 
Faint  in  the  falling  shadows  dimly  stood 

And  prayed  the  gates  to  let  him  enter  through. 

A  thin,  white  Hand,  scarce  visible,  with  might 
Turned  the  vast  hinges,  and  he  walked  alone 

From  Man  the  Mote  to  God  the  Infinite, 

Comrade  of  Truth  and  heir  of  the  Unknown. 


THE  DEAD  SINGER. 

SWEET  Music  was  his  Church  and  Creed  ; 
He  knew  her  chimes  and  loved  to  ring  them  ; 
The  Muses,  his  good  friends,  indeed, 

Taught  him  their  songs  and  how  to  sing  them  ! 


JBirtb's  flMracte.  147 

Who  doubts  that  he  shall  know  beyond 
His  brothers  all  without  endeavor, 

And  in  their  chorused  anthems  fond 
His  happy  heart  shall  sing  forever  ! 


THE   ANGELUS. 

*T~*  WO  peasants,  homeward  from  the  fields  of  toil, 

Hear  holy  music  in  their  hasty  quest  : 
Their  longings  leave  the  sorrows  of  the  soil, 
And  sweetly  wander  in  the  vales  of  rest. 

Not  theirs  the  Knowledge  that  is  Guilt  and  Grief  ! 

Not  theirs  the  doubt  that  drives  their  God  away! 
Behold  !  In  trustfulness  of  fond  Belief, 

They  bow  their  heads  and  lift  their  hearts  to 
pray  ! 

BIRTH'S   MIRACLE. 

God's  great  mountains  in  the  vast  Un- 
known, 

A  halting  soul  moves  helpless  down  the  slopes  ; 
On  Time's  broad  portals  pauses,  lost  and  lone, 
And  knocks  for  entrance  into  human  hopes. 

Then  Love  with  fondest  travail,  in  her  soul 
The  awful  anguish  that  his  life  shall  know, 

Clasps  firm  his  fingers  and  with  calm  control 
Leads  him  in  terror  to  Man's  ways  of  woe  ! 


148       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbweet  Country. 
TWO    PRAYERS. 


"T^EACH  me  to  live,  O  Wisdom!"     Thus  in 

•*•  youth 

Prayed  I,  ere  Yearning  to  Resolve  had  grown  ; 
"  Enwreathe  my  brows  with  garlands  of  the  Truth, 

And    lead   my  footsteps    through    the   far    Un 
known  !  " 

"  Teach  me  to  die,  O  Wisdom  !  "     Thus  in  throes 
Of  pain  implored  I,  after  life's  long  quest  ; 

"Lull  my  tired  longings  into  sweet  repose, 
And  hide  my  soul  in  everlasting  rest  !  " 

AMBITION. 

WHERE  'S  your  glory,  fickle  Fame  ? 
Here  's  the  service  that  I  brought  you  ; 
Here  's  the  worship  ;  can  I  claim 

Nothing  for  the  deeds  I  wrought  you  ? 

I  'm  so  weary  ;  toil  's  distressing  ; 

Sick,  I  scout  your  foolish  snares  ; 
Yet  I  'd  rather  have  your  blessing 

Than  the  crown  a  monarch  wears  ! 

LOVE. 

WHO  knows  the  life  of  the  tree  ? 
Who  knows  the  life  of  the  rose  ? 
Who  knows  if  the  life  that  is  moving  me 
Is  the  life  of  the  bud  that  blows  ? 


flMnstrel's  power.  149 

Whatever  it  be,  I  shall  call  it  Love 

That  came  to  a  world  of  woe, — 
That  came  from  the  stars  of  the  skies  above 

To  live  in  the  stars  below  ! 


THE   POET. 

TV/T  ORE  than  the  Prophet  and  the  Priest, 
•*-*^      Than  Soldier,  Sage,  and  King, 
He  brings  to  men  through  fast  and  feast 

The  truths  that  seraphs  sing  ; 
He  rules  enthroned  o'er  Sword  and  Crown  ! 

In  God's  Most  Holy  Place, 
He  calls  His  kindest  blessings  down, 

And  meets  Him  face  to  face  ! 


THE    MINSTREL'S   POWER. 

LORY  and  power  and  place, 

And  the  gifts  they  bring, 
Yield  to  the  gladness  and  grace 

Of  the  hearts  that  sing, 
Taught  by  the  stars  and  the  suns  that  rise 
Music  that  murmurs  of  Paradise  ; 
For  the  minstrel  knows 
Truths  that  only  to  him  unclose. 


Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

LIFE. 

nPO  all  but  wisdom  and  the  wise, 

•*•       Life  is  a  beggar  lean  and  old, 

Who  wears  large  hunger  in  his  eyes 

And  shivers  with  the  cruel  cold. 
But  no  !     She  reigns  a  princess  fair, 
With  cheery  cheeks  and  happy  hair, 
With  laughters  leaping  from  her  lips, 
And  joys  upon  her  finger-tips  ! 


TRADITION. 

A    GIANT,  many-sided,  old,  and  great, 
g*^*>     Bestrode   the   highways  where   the   nations 

grope, 
Defied  the  sons  of  men  with  swords  of  hate, 

And  drove  them  backward  from  the  hills  of  hope, 
Till  one  insurgent  rebel  smote  him  sore  ; 
And  lo,  the  Giant  terrified  no  more  ! 


THE  CREATION  OF  ART. 

A    SHAPELESS  Chaos  void  and  lifeless  lay 
**"     Before  a  dreamer  in  his  mighty  hour  ; 
He  breathed  his  life  between  the  lips  of  clay, 

And  all  the  empty  arteries  throbbed  with  power  ; 
Then,  leaping  at  the  Master  mind's  control, 
It  stood  an  angel  with  its  maker's  soul ! 


•fcero  and  Singer.  151 

GOD'S  CHILDREN. 

GOD'S  children,  Time  and  Nature,  build  in  sand 
Man's  wondrous  empires  full  of  wealth  and 

might, 

Art's  castles  reared  in  playtime's  warm  delight, 
But  quickly  scattered  with  unheeding  hand  ; 
New  races,  nations,  peoples, — what  are  they  ? 
Mere  baubles  fashioned  in  Creation's  play  ! 


IN  A  VOLUME  OF  POEMS. 

O  TRANGER,  pause  where  poet  sings 
^     Music  of  divinest  things  ; 
For,  angelic,  pure,  and  fair, 
Something  of  his  life  is  there, — 
Something  of  his  heart  and  soul 
Where  the  wondrous  measures  roll ! 


HERO  AND  SINGER. 

HP  EN  thousand  swords  in  battle  strove, 

•*•       Ten  thousand  heroes  felled  their  foes, 
And  Glory  twines  no  wreaths  above 

Forgotten  graves  where  they  repose  ; 
One  singer  sang  his  toils  and  tears, 
And  lo,  he  lives  through  endless  years  ! 


Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 
TO-DAY  AND  TO-MORROW. 

HP  HOUGH  narrow,  poor,  and  small, 
A       To-day  is  infinite 

With  possibles  of  might ; 
To-morrow,  vast  and  all 

From  Time's  great  shore  to  shore, 

Is  finite  evermore. 


THE  DEAD  SEER. 

T^HROUGHOUT   the   solemn  wonders  of  the 
Night 

And  all  the  gorgeous  glories  of  the  Day, 
God's  angels  with  the  Wisdom  of  delight 

Taught  him  the  Truth  and  told  him  what  to  say  ; 
Till  Mercy  called  him  from  the  valleys  lone, 
And  made  him  Master  of  the  vast  Unknown  ! 


ONE  SAYING. 

E  saying  the  centuries  cherish 
And  treasure  again  and  again  : 
Live  not  in  the  books  that  perish, 

But  live  in  the  lives  of  men  ; 
For  the  books  shall  cease  at  the  set  of  sun, 
But  the  lives  of  men,— they  are  never  done  ! 


Selfs/BbaOe.  153 

TO  A  SINGER  I  NEVER  SAW. 

\  17"  HAT  though  we  wander  life  along 

*  *        Through  distant  lands  and  gusty  weather  ? 
The  finger-tips  of  tender  song 

Shall  link  our  dreaming  souls  together, 
And  every  note  I  sing  shall  be 
Sweet  echoes  of  a  voice  from  thee  ! 

LIMITED. 

OETWEEN  the  oceans  of  the  Night, 
•'-'     Life  walks  the  narrow  lands  of  Light  ; 
And  o'er  the  plains  of  thought  and  will 

The  rivers  of  existence  flow  ; 

Men  sail  the  trailing  streams,  but  know 
How  little  of  the  seas  they  fill  ! 

TRUTH'S  MIGHTINESS. 


T^HE  sons  of  might  that  conquer  here 
•*•       Win  vict'ries  not  with  wild  alarms  ; 
Truth  naked,  stript  of  sword  and  spear, 
Is  greater  than  a  world  in  arms  ! 

SELF-MADE. 

A      FAITHFUL   soul   among  the   swine-herds 

wrought 

With  patient  hands,  nor  dreamed  of  higher  things; 
But  lo  !     At  last  the  nations  found  him,  taught 
To  sway  the  sceptres  of  a  hundred  kings  ! 


i54       Songs  from  tbc  Soutbwest  Country. 
THE  DEAD  WAIF. 

A    HELPLESS  one,  sin-summoned  from  the  sky, 
**•       A  moment  lingered  in  the  ways  of  men  ; 
Then  God's  fond  mercy  heard  its  lonely  cry, 
And  lo,  He  drew  it  to  his  heart  again  ! 

A   PRAYER. 

T7ILL  up  my  heart,  O  Father,  with  relief 

While  close  I  lean  for  comfort  on  Thy  breast ; 
I,  weary  child,  heart-broken  with  my  grief, 
Creep  in  the  dark  and  sob  myself  to  rest ! 

DUTY. 

0  thy  best  deed  !     It  is  not  lost 
Though  hid  from  Glory's  gorgeous  light  ; 
God's  altar  fires  are  just  as  bright 
When  one  soul  worships,  as  a  host ! 


IN  DIALECT. 


155 


THE  FAITH  CURE. 

C  PEAKIN'  of  religen  now, 

*"•'     I  ain't  posted  much,  en  hain't 

Aney  idee  aneyhow 

'Bout  the  way  they  make  a  saint 
From  a  sinnin'  sort  of  man 
On  the  hallylooyer  plan  ; 
Howsumever,  I  admit 
It  's  a  good  'nuff  thing  to  git, 
When  a  feller  's  brimmin'  full 
Of  the  kind  thet  's  practicull ! 

Now,  fer  instunce  !     Thayre  's  ole  Bill 

Wimpler  in  the  south  of  town  ; 
Got  religen  fit  to  kill, 

Hallylooyered  up  en  down, 
En  let  off  a  young  cyclone 
Down  thayre  on  his  prayin'  bone, 
Clar  in  sight  of  heaven's  throne, 
Sweepin'  through  the  happy  skies 
On  a  shout  thet  satisfies  ! 
Allus  wuz  a  purty  good 

Easy-goin'  feller  through 
Thick  en  thin  of  things  thet  would 

Knock  the  end-gate  outen  you  ! 
Wuz  a  blacksmith,  Bill  wuz  ;  stout, 
Stouter,  too,  'an  all  git  out ; 
i57 


158       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Tall  like  ;  en  he  wuz  a  man 
On  the  spider-legged  plan  ; 
Could  jist  hold  a  hoss,  en  drive 
Hoss-shoes  on  him,  sakes  alive  ! 
En  when  Bill  grabbed  holt  the  foot 
Of  some  mule,  en  said,  "  Whoa,  brute  ! 
Makes  no  diff'runce  whut  a  fool 
Once  wuz  thet-air  plegged  mule, 
He  'd  jist  bow  his  head,  en  lay 
His  long  ears  back  thataway, 
Tell  ole  Bill  wuz  plum  clean  through 
Drivin'  on  the  last  blame  shoe  ! 
Mendin"  plows  en  broke  machines 
Wuz  his  main  holt,  too  ;  fer  he 
Could  with  wires  en  tom-fool-ree, 
Fans  en  flops  en  shakes  en  screens, 
With  contrapshuns,  balls,  en  springs, 
Make  the  most  awdashus  things 
Run  by  steam  er  walked  by  hoss, 
Feller  ever  come  across  ! 

Uster  loaf  with  him  fer  days, 
Meddertatin'  on  his  ways, 
En  a  sort  of  fishin'  through, 

Jist  to  find  out  fer  myse'f, 
Whayre  his  money  cantered  to, 

En  whut  laid  him  on  the  shelf  ! 

Wuzzent  feared  of  work  a  bit ! 

I  kin  hear  his  big  anvill, 
Seems  to  me,  a-ringin"  yit 


Cbc  jfaitb  Cure.  159 

'Fore  the  sun  clumb  up  the  hill ; 
Never  stopped  to  eat  a  bite 
Tell  the  daytime  quit  fer  night  ; 
But  fer  all,  I  jist  declare, 
Never  had  a  cent  to  spare  ! 
Pore  ?     Pore  don't  spell  it  !     Pore 
Ez  a  snake,  en  then  some  more  ! 
Allus  crowded  him  to  git 
Groc'ry  bills  paid  up,  en  yit 
He  made  lots  of  money,  jist 
Rollin'  in,  hand  over  fist  ! 
Dident  drink  ner  gamble,  ner 
Fool  away  his  substance  fer 
Aney  bad,  ferbidden  things 
Made  of  vain  imaginings  ; 
But  he  some  way  couldent  make 
Nothin'  fer  his  pocket's  sake, 
But  it  tumbled  out  agin 
Faster  'an  he  stuffed  it  in  ! 

Now,  us  neighbors  wundered  some 
(Neighbors  will,  the  best  of  um  !), 
En  we  talked  it  kind  of  out, 
How  it  all  had  come  about ; 
But  not  one  knowed  whut  it  wuz 
Thet  wuz  botherin'  Bill  en — us  ! 
But  ole  Bill  one  loafin'  day, 
Suddent  like,  which  wuz  his  way, 
Leaked  the  idee,  I  tell  you, 
Whut  it  wuz,  clean  through  en  through, 
Circus,  side-show,  concert,  too  ! 


160       Songs  trom  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Sally, — thet  's  his  wife, — you  see, 

One  of  them  thayre  womern  wur, 
Thinks  theyr  sick  !     How  well  she  'd  be 

Somepin'  'ud  be  wrong  with  her, 
En  thayre  's  one  dizzease  she  had, — 
Doctors  comin' — mighty  bad  ! 
So  the  same  of  course  wuz  took 
By  the  fam'bly  pocket-book, 
Tell  it  wilted  like,  en  wur 
Hunderd  times  ez  sick  ez  her  ; 
Fer  she  never  seemed  the  wuss 
Of  her  fits  so  dangeruss, 
While  it  shrivelled  up  so  thin 
Nary  cent  wuz  hidin'  in  ! 

Sally  wuz  a  leetle,  short, 
Sawed-off  woman, — jist  thet  sort ; 
Fat  ?     Like  pippins  in  the  fall 

When  theyr  hearts  of  meller  mursh 
Dangle  on  the  branches  tall 

Waitin'  fer  the  winds  to  sqursh  ! 
When  I  'd  see  her  waddlin'  by 

Swingin'  arms  both  right  en  lef, — 
I  'm  ashamed  of  it,  but  I 

Wushed  she  'd  fall  en  bust  herse'f, 
En  spill  every  orful  bad 
Blame  dizzease  she  thort  she  had  ! 


Kep"  a  cubberd  full  of  pills, — 
Patent  med'cine  git-ups  fer 


ffaftb  Cure.  161 


All  new-fangled  sorts  of  ills 

No  one  ever  had  but  her  ! 
Ev'ry  pad  en  poultice,  too, 

'Lectric  things  en  strings  en  sich, 
Warranted  to  pull  her  through 

From  newmowny  to  the  itch, 

Made  no  diff  'runce  which  wuz  which 
But  each  one  'ud,  well  or  ill, 
Make  her  sick  en  sicker  still, 
En  jist  keep  her  sick  ;  en  she 
Swallered  all  the  theeory 
Thet  ole  Naytcher  's  jist  a  school 
Run  fer  some  drug-mixin'  fool, 
En  she  put  dependence  in 
Doctor  bills  en  medicine  ! 


I  hain't  no  seerious  dissent  to 
Doctors  ;  sometimes  they  will  do, 
En  you  like  to  have  'em  come 
'Twixt  you  en  millennium, 
En  jist  yank  you,  sick  en  sore, 
From  the  happy,  golden  shore  ; 
But  ef  kep'  about  the  place 
All  the  time,  they  fall  from  grace. 
When  they  git  acquainted, — well, 
Then  they  ruther  lose  theyr  spell 
Over  me  ;  the  plegged  smell 
Of  theyr  clothes  en  things  about 
Puts  my  stummick  all  to  rout 
Like  the  stuff  they  ladle  out ! 


162       Songs  trom  tbe  Soutbwest  Country 

Sally,  though,  found  much  delight 
Keepin'  doctors  thayre  in  sight 
Clar  from  mornin'  ontell  night, 
En  she  swallered  down  theyr  stuff 
Like  she  couldent  git  enough  ; 
So  she  went  on  quite  a  spell 
Doct'rin'  up  en  gittin*  well, 
En  relapsin'  back  agin 
Whayre  she  fust  had  started  in  ! 
Never  seemed  to  gain  but  she 
Lost  it  all,  en  'en  'ud  be 
Wuss  'n  ever  ;  nuthin',  though, 
Dang'russ  like,  fer  all  her  show 
En  her  mopin'  signs  of  woe  ; 
But  the  neighbors'  fokes,  you  know, 
Like  they  will,  jist  shook  theyr  heads, 

Speckilatin'  thet  she  'd  die 
Sure  some  day,  en  be  ez  dead  's 

Mackerel  dried  up,  by  en  by  ; 
En  they  went  en  worried  on 

Whut  'ud  Bill  do  in  thet  case 
With  them  childern  when  she  's  gone 

Yander  to  thet  healthy  place  ; 
En  some  feller  'lowed  with  her 

Jist  removed,  thet  Bill  'ud  shore 

Do  lots  better  'an  before, 
Whutsoever  might  occur ; 
En  perdicted  thet  the  town 

Ez  a  health-reesort  'ud  gain 

Ef  she  'd  break  life's  brickie  chain  ;- 
Reppytation  had  run  down 


ffattb  Cure.  163 


Orful  low  en  fur  en  wide 
'Cause  of  illnesses  she  tried  ;  — 
En  Jim  Summers  said  he  thort, 
When  she  reached  the  heavenly  port, 
It  quite  doubtful  ef  she  wur 
Happy  in  them  mansions  fur 
Without  somepin  ailin'  her  ! 

Wull,  one  summer,  when  she  got 

Sort  of  risin'  in  her  head, 
Bile  er  somepin,  like  as  not, 

En  wuz  railly  sick,  they  said, 
She  jist  had  a  rousin"  spell  ! 

Kep'  Bill  dancin'  day  en  night 
Puttin'  hot  things  on  her,  tell 

Blistered  so  she  wuz  a  sight  ; 
Had  a  high-jinks  time  ;  jist  walked, 

Wrung  her  hands,  en  cried  en  cried, 
Yelled  en  bellered  out,  en  talked 

Days  en  nights  of  suicide  ! 
En  we  thort,  the  way  she  tore, 
Thet  she  'd  kick  the  bucket  shore  ! 

In  the  neighborhood  thayre  stayed 
Ole  Miss  Watkins,  —  an  ole  maid 
Er  grass-widder,  —  don't  know  which  ; 
But  the  fokes  said  she  wuz  rich, 
En  on  thet  account  could  do 
Aneything  she  wanted  to 
Without  people  talkin'  ;  she 


164       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Gountrg. 

In  religen,  too,  you  see, 
Differed  from  the  rest  of  us 
In  her  faith  rediculuss  ! 
She  believed  with  nary  doubt 
Sickness  allus  comes  about 
From  our  meanness  croppin'  out, 
En  good  people  sich  as  her 
Never  sick  ner  porely  wur  ! 
I  remember  when  she  took 
With  newmowny  onct,  en  lay 
Fer  a  week  or  two,  they  say, 
With  a  all-fired  scarey  look, 
Tell  her  feechers  sot ; — thet  's  why 
Ever'body  said  she  'd  die  ; 
But  she  said  she  wuzzent  sick, — 
Jist  a  leetle  tired  wuz  all, — 
En  stuck  to  it !     Wouldent  call 
Aney  doctor  in,  ner  do 
Things  thet  people  hurry  to, 
When  they  trump  Death's  leadin'  trick  ; 
Womern  bawled  aroun'  a  spell, 
En  she  jawed  'em  like,  ontell 
All  at  onct  she  got  up  well  ! 
En  the  womern  wuz  thet  mad, — 

Said  they  shorely  knowed  she  wur 
Jist  pretendin'  thet  she  had 

Some  dizzease  a-holt  of  her  ! 
En  went  on  so  over  it 
Some  won't  reckergnize  her  yit, 
Er  speak  to  her  hearty  loud 
When  they  meet  her  in  a  crowd  ! 


ffaitb  (Jure.  165 

Now,  when  Sally  got  thet  bile 

In  her  head,  Miss  Watkins  come 
With  her  sort  of  dusty  smile, 

Runnin'  resk  of  martyrdom  ; 
Tolt  her  ef  she  'd  jist  believe 
Nuthin'  ailt  her,  she  "d  receive 
Lovin'  faith,  thet  comes  en  brings 
Health  en  healin'  in  its  wings, 
En  so  forth  ;  en  Sally  she, 

So  deestracted  with  the  pain, 
Kind  of  took  it  in,  you  see, 

En  she  axt  her  to  remain 
En  to  tell  her  out  en  out 
Things  she  never  heerd  about  ! 

Now,  thayre  wuz  thet  very  day 

Feller  at  Miss  Watkins  home 

Thort  like  she  did  ;  en  he  come 
Down  to  Wimpler's  right  away, 
Bein  's  Sally  done  invite 
Him  to  cure  her  bile  up  right  ; 
Wuz  from  some  place, — don't  know  whayre, — 
Wichita,  er  som'ers  thayre  : 
Wuz  a  priest, — er  teacher, — er 
Somepin  womern  hanker  fer  ; 

He  jist  talked  to  Sally  good, 
Rubbed  her  head  and  prayed  with  her, 

Tell  the  whole  blame  neighborhood 
Called  him  looney  en  clean  gone, 
Tryin'  his  fool  doctern  on 
Thet  thayre  woman  ailin'  so, — 


166       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Sich  a  hopeless  case,  you  know  ! 
Fer  we  knowed,  through  thin  en  thick 
Sally's  trade  wuz  bein'  sick, 
En  we  thort  she  'd  work  it  some 
Spite  of  faith  en  Christendom  ! 

Wull,  sir,  she  jist  swallered  down 
All  he  tolt  her  ;  en  her  bile 
Busted  in  a  leetle  while 
Arter  thet  ;  en  all  the  town 
Laughed  a  lot,  en  people  said 
She  'd  got  wuss  things  in  her  head 
'An  her  bile  had  ever  been  ; 
But  ef  she  'd  git  somepin  in 
Thet  'ud  do  fer  medicine, — 
Somepin  thet  wuz  ruther  cheap, — 
It  might  he'p  her  out  a  heap, 
En  Bill's  pocket-book  'ud  git 
Full  salvation  outen  it ! 

Ever  see  the  mirth  en  might 

Of  a  happy  proselyte  ? 

Thet  wuz  Sally  !     Tolt  it  quick 

She  wuz  done  with  bein'  sick, — 

She  had  overcome  the  sin 

Thet  had  brought  dizzeases  in  ; 

En  she  said,  en  so  it  seemed, 

Sickness  wuz  a  thing  she  'd  dreamed,- 

Thet  she  wuz  not  sick  afore, 

En  she  wouldent  be  no  more  ; 

So  she  throwed  her  bottles  all, 


tlbe  ffaitb  Cure.  167 

Full  er\  empty,  pads  en  strings, 
Pills  en  plasters,  wires  en  springs, 
Sich  as  purfic  saints  condemn, — 

In  a  basket  in  the  hall  ; 

En  she  toted  the  display 

To  the  garden  right  away, — 
Dug  a  hole  en  buried  'em  ! 

Said  ez  close  to  faith  she  'd  stick 

Ez  she  had  at  bein'  sick  ! 

Things  went  forrard  purty  fast, 
Soon  as  thet  thayre  bile  wuz  past ; 
Arter  Sally  got  her  fill 
En  wuz  cured  of  ev'ry  ill, 
Her  religen  tackled  Bill 
All  to  onct,  en  he  give  in, 
Sayin'  he  wuz  sick  of  sin, — 
This  wuz  more  'an  medicine  ! 
Bill  wuz  shorely  happies'  one 
Ever  lived  sence  time  begun 
When  he  got  religen  thayre 
Ez  he  knelt  en  tried  a  prayer  ; 
Like  enough  he  wuz  assured 
Thet  his  pocket-book  wuz  cured, 
En  the  doctor-bills  'ud  quit 
Grabbin'  dollars  outen  it, — 
En  I  hold  it,  at  them  rates, 
Cheapes'  cure  in  seven  States  ! 

Saw  Bill  jist  the  other  day  ; 
He  's  accumulatin'  wealth 


168       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbweat  Country. 

Sence  they  all  learnt  thataway 

How  to  keep  theyrselves  in  health  ; 
Bought  a  farm  en  paid  the  cash 

One  year  arter  thet  thayre  bile 
En  theyr  sickness  went  to  smash  ; 

Wears  a  rich,  contented  smile, 
Drives  a  kerridge  big  en  fine, 
En  wears  clothes  ez  good  ez  mine. 
Whut  ef  no  one  else  concurs 
In  thet  faith  of  his  en  hers  ? 
It  is  plain  to  all  about 
Thet  his  pocket-book  is  stout, 
Healed  ferever  on  thet  day 
Sally  found  the  faith-cure  way  ! 

Ez  I  said  I  say  agin, 

Speakin'  of  religen  now, 
Cure  fer  sickness  en  fer  sin, — 
I  ain't  posted  much,  en  hain't 

Aney  idee  aneyhow 
Whut  is  done  to  make  a  saint 
From  a  sinnin'  sort  of  man 
On  the  hallylooyer  plan  ; 
But  it 's  shorely  somepin  fine 
When  you  git  the  genyouine 
Payin'  kind,  thet 's  easy  took 
En  will  he'p  the  pocket-book, — 
Fillin'  all  your  longin's  full 
Of  the  sort  thet  's  practicull, 
En  jist  caches  fer  the  spot, 
Like  the  kind  thet  Sally  got  ! 


OLE  JIM   HANKINS. 

E  Jim  Hankins, — you  knowed  him- 
Beas'ly  awk'erd,  tall,  en  slim, 
Like  the  Lord  had  made  him  rough 
Outen  secon'-handed  stuff, 
En  'en  seein'  he  'd  played  hob 
Never  finished  up  his  job  ! 
Uster  live  'way  up  the  crick 
Whayre  the  woods  en  bresh  is  thick, 
In  a  leetle  cabin  throwed 
Over  thayre  along  the  road. 
Traded  hosses  all  the  time, 

En  he  'd  work  his  jaws  en  spout 

Haff  a  day  er  more  about 
Some  ole  hoss  he  thort  sublime  ! 
Aw,  you  knowed  him  !  Blamedest  one 
Ever  lived  sence  time  begun  ' 
Took  the  yaller  janders  some 
When  the  tradin'  season  come, 
En  he  yallered  on  en  on 
Tell  his  ellerkence  'uz  gone, 
En  he  couldent  talk  a  bit  ; 
Seems  to  me  I  see  him  yit 
Weepin'  like  his  heart  'uz  wrung, 
'Cause  he  couldent  wag  his  tongue, 
Like  a  easy-run  machine, 
169 


i?o       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

'Bout  the  hosses  he  had  seen. 

Don't  remember  !  Wull,  I  swow  ! 

Why,  I  see  the  feller  now  ! 

How  he  lived,  ez  some  men  do, — 

Ole  hoss  trader  through  en  through, — 

En  the  people  fer  en  wide 

Come  to  see  him  when  he  died  ! 

Wush  you  could  a-knowed  ole  Jim 
'Fore  the  janders  tackled  him  ! 

Ganglin'-like  en  sort  of  slow, 
He  a-hitchin'  'long  'ud  go, 
Er  he  santered  'round  en  lit 
His  ole  pipe  en  puffed  a  bit  : 
Swallered  smoke  ontell  it  riz 
Through  thet  peaked  nose  of  his  ; 
Hawked  en  hawked,  en  'en  he  'd  spit, 
Tell  he  'd  wet  en  kind  of  spile, 
In  his  free  en  easy  style, 
'Bout  a  front  yard  full  of  ground 
Thet  wuz  layin'  thayre  around  ; 
Er  he  'd  take  his  yaller  twist 
Of  terbacker  in  his  fist, 
En  sock  in  his  teeth,  en  pull 
Tell  his  mouth  wuz  brimmin'  full ; 
Then  he  'd  work  his  nimble  jaw 
Up  en  down  acrost  the  chaw 
In  his  happy,  keerless  way, 
Fer  the  likes  of  haff  a  day  ! 
Uster  be  the  bigges'  fun, 


©le  5im  1>anhtns. 

Jist  to  set  en  watch  him  squirt 
Juicy  mouth-fulls  at  the  dirt, 
Like  some  long,  infernal  gun 
Would  its  buzzin'  bullets  throw 
At  the  breast-works  of  a  foe  ; 
Whew,  but  he  could  spit  it  hard  ! 
Hit  a  bull's-eye  twenty  yard, 
En  wuz  never  knowed  to  miss 
When  he  squoze  them  lips  of  his  ! 

Wush  you  could  a-knowed  ole  Jim 
'Fore  the  janders  tackled  him  ! 

Uster  dress  the  queeres',  too  ! 
Wore  the  bigges'  size  of  shoe, — 
Number  ten  er  thayreabout, — 
With  his  toes  a-stickin'  out  ; 
Said  he  'd  turned  'em  out  fer  grass 
With  the  horned,  four-footed  class  ! 
Round-a-bout  en  overhalls 

Kivered  shins  en  sunken  breast, 
En  his  hick'ry  shirt  wuz  best 
To  pertect  him  from  the  squalls, 
Ragin'  storms  'en  winds  thet  blowed 
On  the  wintry  ways  he  knowed  ; 
En  upon  his  head  of  hair, 
Shaggy-like,  he  'd  allus  wear 
His  ole  cap  of  coon-skin  hide 
With  the  fur  on  outer  side, 
En  the  striped'st  tail  you  'd  find 
Stickin'  proudly  out  behind, 


Songs  from  tbe  Soutbweet  Country. 

Bobbin*  up  en  down  on  high 
Like  a  banner  in  the  sky  ! 

Never  had  a  gallus  on, 
Ner  a  collar  ner  a  tie  ; 

Said  his  natchurl  way  'd  be  gone 
Ef  he  'd  wear  them  horrid  things, — 
Frills  en  furbelows  en  strings, — 
Thet  the  han'some  fellers  git 
When  they  spark  en  spruce  a  bit ; 
En  his  whiskers  long  en  rough 
Suited  him  jist  good  enough, 
Ef  terbacker  juice  got  in 
Ez  it  wandered  down  his  chin  ! 

Wush  you  could  a-knowed  ole  Jim 
'Fore  the  janders  tackled  him  ! 

Beat'nes'  feller  ever  seen  ! 
Allus  puzzled  my  machine 
How  ole  Hankins  got  so  smart 
In  the  tradin'-hosses  art. 
Fokes  called  him  a  kind  of  fool 

Thet  in  manners  couldent  shine, — 

But  in  his  peculeyer  line 
He  wuz  born  to  run  en  rule  ; 
Never  had  a  word  to  say 

When  jist  common  things  en  sich, 

Very  pore  er  very  rich, 
Come  around  his  lonesome  way  ; 

Never  knowed  jist  which  wuz  which  ; 
But  when  some  new  hoss  wuz  by, 


©le  5tm  Ibanfctng.  173 

Spread  his  mouth  en  let  'er  fly  ! 
Whut  he  knowed  about  a  hoss, 

Hosses'  ages,  ways,  en  looks, 

Would  a-filled  a  dozen  books 
No  man  ever  come  across  ! 
Never  seen  him  downed  er  beat 

When  you  took  him  in  his  line, 

Fer  a  man  had  best  resign 
When  he  tried  to  work  a  cheat 
On  ole  Hankins,  'bout  the  worth 
Of  the  hosses  of  the  earth  ; 
En  regardin'  his  own  trade 
He  wuz  allus  thayre, — en  stayed  ! 

Wush  you  could  a-knowed  ole  Jim 
'Fore  the  janders  tackled  him  ! 

But  he  had  a  heart  ez  kind 

Ez  the  womern  folks,  en  wide 

Ez  the  wants  onsatisfied 
Thet  upon  our  paths  we  find  ; 
Nary  kid  in  all  the  land 

But  a-shoutin'  loud  'ud  run 
Fer  to  grab  him  by  the  hand, 

With  a  heart  as  full  of  fun 
Ez  a — millon  is  of  juice 
When  a  feller  lets  it  loose  ! 
Sacks  of  candy  en  sich  things 

Fer  which  babies  raise  a  row, — 
Tops  en  marvels,  knives  en  strings, — 

In  his  pockets  wuz,  somehow  ; 


174       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwcst  Country. 

People  allus  welcomed  Jim 
To  theyr  homes  en  honored  him, 
Like  he  wuz  a  king  of  might 
Thet  wuz  fetchin'  'em  delight  ! 
None  thayre  wuz  but  he  would  do 
Level  best  to  pull  'em  through, 
En  they  allus  praised  en  blest 
Whut  he  did,  like  all  possest ! 
Carried  widder  womern  flour, 
Wood,  en  vittles,  by  the  hour, 
En  wuz  like  a  daddy  to 
Orphan  kids  the  country  through. 
Never  saved  his  money,  though,— 
Fellers  like  him  don't,  you  know  ! 
Never  keered  fer  pride  er  pelf 
Ner  a  copper  fer  hisself, 
But  the  best  man  happ'nin'  round 
On  the  top  side  of  the  ground, — 
Give  the  last  blame  cent  he  had 
Jist  to  make  some  feller  glad  ! 

Wush  you  could  a-knowed  ole  Jim 
'Fore  the  janders  tackled  him  ! 

Led  a  sort  of  lonesome  life, 

Ez  some  fokes  remarked  of  Jim  ; 

Never  found  the  stripe  of  wife 
Thet  'ud  jist  agree  with  him  ; 

Though  the  older  settlers  say 
Thet  when  he  wuz  but  a  boy 
Clean  chuck-full  of  purfic  joy, 


©le  Jim  f>anfcins.  175 

He  'd  a  sweet  heart  glad  en  gay, 

But  she  pined  away  en  died, 

Leavin'  him  onsatisfied, 

En  through  all  the  seasons  grum 

His  pore  heart  a  vacuum  ! 

No  relations  of  his  own, 

Walked  the  ways  thet  he  had  known, — 

Cows,  ner  pigs,  ner  other  fokes  ; 
Fer  he  allus  lived  alone, 

Chawed  terbacker,  told  his  jokes  ; 
Took  things  jist  ez  easy  thayre 
Ez  he  could  most  aney  whayre, 
Like  a  'coon  of  highes'  type 
When  the  roas'in'  ears  is  ripe  ! 
His  ole  dawg  en  hoss  wuz  all 

Thet  he  keered  to  have  about, 
En  he  kep'  them  in  his  call 

Jist  to  sort  of  he'p  him  out 
When  he  got  to  feelin'  blue 
En  not  knowin'  whut  to  do  ! 
But  at  feller-mortals  he 
Drawed  the  line,  ez  all  could  see, 

Though  he  never  harmed  a  man 
Fer  ez  I  have  ever  heerd, 
En  he  never  wuz  afeerd 
Of  his  shadder,  ner  could  be  ; 

Fer  he  took  the  gospel  plan, 
En  he  made  hisself  as  good 
Ez  he  wushed  his  fellers  would, — 
Jist  ez  good  ez  good  could  be, 
Ez  he  allus  seemed  to  me  ! 


176       Songs  from  tbc  Soutbwest  Country. 

Wush  you  could  a-knovved  ole  Jim 
'Fore  the  janders  tackled  him  ! 

But  when  Jim  got  sick  in  bed, 

En  ole  Death  with  floppin'  wings 
Hovered  all  around  his  head, 

En  the  darkes'  kinds  of  things 
Come  around  whayre  he  wuz  spread,- 
Seemed  to  me  the  earth  en  sky 
'Ud  be  blackened  by  en  by  ! 
Saddes'  sight  you  ever  seed, — 
Railly  made  my  ole  heart  bleed, — 
When  he  rated  up  kind  of  weak 
On  his  elbow,  fer  to  speak, 
En  he  said  :  "  I  never  keer 
How  the  Lord  may  treat  me  here, 
But  it  strikes  me  ruther  bad 
En  it  makes  me  sort  of  sad, 
'Cause  I  've  got  to  go  away 
Whayre  the  juice-harps  allus  play, 
Whayre  no  hosses  trot  before, 
En  hoss-traders  trade  no  more  ; 
But  ef  I  could  trade  agin 
'Fore  I  leave  the  trails  of  sin, 
I  could  pass  my  checks,  en  know 
Work  wuz  over  here  below  !  " 

Wull,  sir,  when  he  once  got  through, 
All  the  people  thayre  jist  cried, 

Bellered  out  en  blubbered,  too, 
Like  the  whole  creation  'd  died  ; 


ffianfcs  of  Gurfceg  IRun.  177 


But  I  —  stepped  —  right  up  —  to  —  Jim 

Knowin'  whut  he  wanted  most  ; 
Traded  hosses  thayre  with  him 

'Fore  his  consciousness  wuz  lost 
(Made  ten  dollars  ;  only  time 
Jim  got  euchered  on  a  dime  !), 
En  acrost  the  river  he 
Peaceful  like  en  quietly 
Waded  through  the  worters  deep, 
Like  a  youngster  gone  to  sleep  ! 
En  ef  heaven  is  over  thayre 
Whayre  them  angel  bein's  air, 
I  'm  jist  shore  't  wuz  made  fer  Jim 
En  all  fellers  good  ez  him  ! 

Wush  you  could  a-knowed  ole  Jim 
'Fore  the  janders  tackled  him  ! 


THE   BANKS    OF   TURKEY    RUN. 

T    IKE  a  thousen  birds  of  brightness  from  the  isles 

•*•"*      of  summer  seas, 

Rickollections  full  of  gladness  come  with  songs  en 

lullabies, 

En  I  listen  to  the  carols  thet  with  gentle  voices^roll 
Full  of  tenderness  en  beauty  down  upon  my  weary 

soul  ; 
Fer  thayre  's  one  thet  keeps  a-singin'  with  a  song 

thet 's  never  done, 
En  I  see  the  bendin'  willers  on  the  banks  of  Turkey 

Run  ! 


i?s       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

En  agin  I  be  a  youngster  with  a  youngster's  foolin' 

dreams, 
With  his   highfalutin'  notions,  en  his  fiddle-faddle 

schemes 
With  the  laughin'  en  the  cryin',  with  the  sorrer  en 

the  joy, 

Thet  is  jumbled  up  together  in  the  bosom  of  a  boy  ; 
En  agin  my  airly  fancies  in  a  fairy  loom  air  spun 
Underneath  the  dancin'  shadders  on  the  banks  of 

Turkey  Run. 

En  agin  I  be  a  school-boy  with  the  other  merry  lads, 
When  Joe  en  Jerry,  Bill  en  I  wuz  only  leetle  tads, — 
When  a  half  a  dozen  marvels  en  a  kivered  ball  wuz 

worth, 
With  a  knife  of  Barlow  pattern,  all  the  treasures  of 

the  earth  ; 
En  the  soundin'  sort  of  thunder   from  a  poppin' 

kind  of  gun 
Sot  our  faces  all  a-giggle  on  the  banks  of  Turkey 

Run. 

It  'ud  tickle  aney  feller  jist  to  see  the  solemn  look, 
When  the  master  wuz  a-watchin',  thet  we  fastened 

on  the  book  ; 

But  the  mischief  stickin"  in  us,  like  pertaters  in  a  sack, 
It  wuz  never  hard  to  empty  when  the  teacher 

turned  his  back  ! 
O,  the  paper  wads  we  tumbled  thet  'ud  weigh  about 

a  ton, 
In  thet  crazy-cornered  school-house  on  the  banks 

of  Turkey  Run  ! 


JBanfcs  of  Curfceg  IRun.  i79 

How  we  uster  chase  the  robins  en  the  rabbits  in 

the  woods, 
How  we  gethered   bloomin'   posies  in  the  sighin' 

solitudes  ! 

How  we  wundered  all  the  medders  in  our  roamin's 

o'er  en  o'er, 
How  we  teetered  in  the  branches  of  the  beech  en 

sycamore  ! 
Er  we  watched  the  rompin'  minners  ez  they  rassled 

in  theyr  fun, 
While  we  nearly  bust  a-laughin',  on  the  banks  of 

Turkey  Run  ! 

How  we  uster  go  a-fishin',  when  the  day  wuz  git- 
tin'  late, 

With  a  bent  pin  fer  a  fish-hook  en  a  fish-worm  fer 

a  bait  ! 

With  a  leetle  line  of  cotton  en  a  hazel  fer  a  pole, 
How  we  sought  the  softes'  places   by  the  wides', 

deepes'  hole  ! 
How  we  tee-hee-ed  at  the  nibbles,  caught  the  fishes 

one  by  one, 
With  the  bigges'  kind  of  prowess,  on  the  banks  of 

Turkey  Run  ! 

When  the  sun  wuz  burnin'  shavin's  in  the  heatin' 

stove  of  June, 
En  the  clock  upon  the  mantel  wuz  a-knockin'  off 

the  noon  ; 
When  the  beams  in  bunches  blistered  as  they  never 

did  afore, 


i8o       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbweet  Country. 

En  the   sweat   wuz   drippin',   droppin',   from   the 

mouth  of  every  pore, 
How  we  skipped  acrost  the  medders,  how  our  swim- 

min'  wuz  begun 
In  the  cool  en  crystal  waters  'tween  the  banks  of 

Turkey  Run  ! 

O,  the  smilin'  days  of  childhood  !     O,  the  loudly- 

laughin'  years  ! 
"When  contentment  brings  the  moments  nary  trace 

of  toils  er  tears  ! 
When  the  pleasures  jine  the  longin's  en  the  fairy 

fingers  roll 
All  theyr  heaps  of  angel  music  in  upon  the  blazin' 

soul  ! 
O,  my  Joe,  en  Bill,  en  Jerry  !     Trustin'  comrades, 

you  wuz  won 
Whayre  my  bare  feet  brushed  the  grasses  on  the 

banks  of  Turkey  Run  ! 

O,  them  airly  ties  air  busted  !  But  I  offen  wait  en 
weep 

Whayre  the  pleasures  of  my  boyhood  in  theyr  leetle 
cradles  sleep, 

Rocked  by  angel  hands  of  glory  full  of  gladness 
onexpressed, 

Tell  theyr  eyes  air  soothed  to  slumber  by  the  lul 
labies  of  rest  ; 

Yit  I  sometimes  like  to  wake  'em,  jist  to  see  theyr 
foolish  fun, 

Back  through  all  the  dismal  shadows,  to  the  banks 
of  Turkey  Run  ! 


Ebe  JBanfcs  of  aurfceg  IRun.  181 


En  alas  !     Thayre  wuz  another  !     She  wuz  fairer 

than  the  rest, 
En  she  allus  had  a  hearin'  fer  the  wushes  of  my 

breast,  — 
Allus  wuz  a  chunk  of  sunshine  en  a  piece  of  quiet 

glee, 
Allus  had  a  smile  of  welcome  en  a  tender  word  fer 

me  ; 
En  without  her  wuz  no  shinin',   en   of  happiness 

wuz  none 
Rompin'  through  them  days  of  childhood  on  the 

banks  of  Turkey  Run. 

O,  her  home  wuz  in  a  cottage  whayre  the  mornin'- 

glories  hung, 
En  the  airly  birds  of  Aprile  with  theyr  sweetes' 

music  sung  ! 
Thayre  wuz  roses  'round  her  winder,  thayre  wuz 

roses  'round  her  door, 
Thet  wuz  stickin'  full  of  blushes,  but  they  seemed 

to  blush  the  more 
When  her  eyes  wuz  seen  a-peepin',  en  her  cheeks 

shone  like  the  sun 
From  thet  cozy  leetle  cottage  on  the  banks  of  Tur 

key  Run  ! 

Many  en  many  a  time  we  wundered  in  the  grassy 

medder-land 
With  our  wishes  thayre  together  en   our  longin's 

hand  in  hand  ; 


182       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Countrg. 

How  we  dreamed  about  the  future,  when  the  world 

should  give  me  fame, 
En  when  she  would  be  thrice  noble  to  be  worthy 

of  my  name  ! 
Thus  we  dreamed  en  thus  we  fancied  ;  others  might 

my  boyhood  shun, 
But  I  found  her  kind,  my  sweetheart,  on  the  banks 

of  Turkey  Run  ! 

But  the  times  have  been  a-changin'  sence  them  airly 

years  of  joy 

When  she  wuz  jist  a  leetle  girl  en  I  a  leetle  boy, — 
When  Joe  en  Jerry,  Bill  en  I,  together  wuz  at  play, 
With  our  hearts  ez  light  ez  feathers  every  minute  of 

the  day, 
En  at  twilight  sunk  to  slumber  tell  the  mornin'  wuz 

begun 
In  the  gloomy,  silent  forests  on  the  banks  of  Turkey 

Run  ! 

Bill  en  Joe  have  gone  a-rovin'  on  a  fortune-huntin' 
quest 

Through  the  silver  mines  en  Injuns  in  the  mount 
ings  of  the  West ; 

But  the  janders  come  to  Jerry  with  a  solemn  sort 
of  call, 

Tell  they  painted  him  ez  yaller  ez  a  punkin  in  the 
fall; 

En  to-day  I  saw  his  tombstone  ez  it  glittered  in  the 
sun 

Over  in  the  leetle  churchyard,  on  the  banks  of 
Turkey  Run  ! 


JBanfcs  of  GurfceB  IRun.  183 


En,  alas,  my  precious  sweetheart  !     Like   a  posy- 

blossom  white 
Did  she  slowly  fade  en  wither,  tell  her  spirit  took  its 

flight  ! 
Like  an  angel  into  heaven  did  she  slowly,  calmly 

creep, 
Tell  her  lovely  life  wuz  over  en  her  longin's  went 

to  sleep  ; 
En  the  tollin',  tollin'  church-bells  dropt  the  dirges 

one  by  one 
Ez  we  laid  her  by  the  wilier  on  the  banks  of  Turkey 

Run  ! 

Thayre  a  leetle  cross  of  marble  marks  the  silent, 

sacred  shade 
Whayre  the  blossom  en  the  beauty  of  my  ole  sweet 

heart  is  laid  ; 
En  the  summer  has  a  sadness  thet  is  cryin'  through 

the  years, 
En  my  heart  is  full  of  sorrer  en  my  eyes  air  full  of 

tears  ; 
Fer  I  've  allus  had  a  failin',  sence  her  friendship 

fust  I  won, 
Fer  thet   lovin"  leetle   maiden,   on   the   banks   of 

Turkey  Run  ! 

But  them  days  air  past  ferever  in  the  years  of  Long 

Ago, 
En  a  wishin'  to  be  wealthy  has  enraptured  Bill  en 

Joe  ; 
Death  has  taken  Jerry  ;  only  I,  of  all  the  boys, 


184       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Am   remainin'  to  remember  all  them  airly  angel 

joys; 
But  to-night  I  see  theyr  faces  ez  they  peep  in  full  of 

fun, 
En  agin  we  're  boys  together,  on   the  banks   of 

Turkey  Run  ! 


MORALIZIN'S. 

HP  HAVRE  'S  nuthin'  in  the  world  thet  's  haff 

So  full  of  comfort  as  a  laff, 
En  nuthin'  like  a  healthy  grin 
To  make  a  feller  glad  agin  ! 

It  ain't  the  weepin'  sort  of  chap 
Thet  goes  a-groanin'  when  the  crap 
Of  wheat  is  provin'  kind  of  small 
En  corn  gits  frost-bit  in  the  fall, 
Who  never  finds  a  thing  amiss 
Er  gits  the  bigges'  hunks  of  bliss  ! 

I  uster  know  a  feller-man 
Thet  seemed  to  foller  sich  a  plan  ; 
Fer  it  wuz  his  besettin'  pride 
To  keep  hisself  onsatisfied, 
En  nuthin'  ever  come  en  fit 
Eggsackly  ez  he  wanted  it. 
When  purfic  joys  wuz  standin'  by, 
He  'd  jist  go  off  alone,  en  try 
To  stuff  the  sweet  en  shinin'  days 
With  sorrers  all  contrairy  ways  ; 


185 


En  when  the  times  wuz  purty  tough, 
It  seemed  he  couldent  cry  enough, 
But  magnified  his  leetle  keers, 
En  wushed  he  wuz  a  bar'l  of  tears, 
Close  by  the  sea,  to  tumble  in 
En  never  find  hisself  agin  ! 

He  allus  stuffed  his  place  fer  brains 
A-heapin'  up  with  woes  en  pains, 
En  had  a  pile  of  his  own  sense 
A-savin'  up  fer  Providence  ; 
Fer  he  had  plannin's  mighty  nice, 
En  could  a-give  the  Lord  advice 
About  the  way  to  hold  the  strings 
En  git  the  purfic  run  of  things  ! 

But  somehow  fellers  sich  as  him 
Have  chances  thet  is  kind  of  slim 
At  findin'  in  these  narrer  years 
A  han'kerchief  fer  all  theyr  tears  ; 
Fer  in  the  purty  strains  of  song 
Thayre  's  allus  notes  a-goin'  wrong, 
En  summer  showers  have  allus  growed 
A  mud-hole  in  the  smoothes'  road. 

'Cause  somepin  goes  a  leetle  bad 
Hain't  aney  reason  to  be  sad, 
For  thayre  is  heerd  a  thousen  songs 
To  every  dozen  of  our  wrongs, 
En  it  makes  trouble  deeper  yit 
To  bawl  en  blubber  over  it  ! 


i86       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbweet  Country. 

A  man  had  better  laff  en  grin 
En  fetch  the  pleasures  back  agin, 
When  life  is  lookin'  kind  of  black 
En  loads  git  heavy  on  his  back, 
Fer  things  air  shore  to  have  theyr  way 
Whatever  he  kin  do  er  say  ! 

To  gether  up  the  joys  thet  bless 
These  human  days  with  happiness, 
En  larn  to  take  things  ez  they  come, 
Has  allus  been  the  bigges'  sum 
Thet  ever  made  a  mortal  wet 
His  throbbin'  brain  with  hones'  sweat  ; 
It  's  sort  of  strange,  but  yit  our  keers 
Git  leetler  with  the  passin'  years, 
En  rale  old  fokes  air  apt  to  find 
Theyr  discontentments  quite  resigned  ; 
Fer  him  thet  knows  the  blessed  art 
Of  garnerin'  pleasures  in  his  heart, 
Gits  happy,  tell  he  thinks  he  must 
Jist  sure  en  sartin  go  en  bust, 
Too  joyous  fur  to  keep  en  hold 
The  laffs  none  ever  bought  fer  gold  ! 

A  feller  mussent  hope  to  find 
Things  jest  a'cordin'  to  his  mind, 
Fer  naytcher  with  her  star  en  sun 
Wuz  shorely  made  fer  more  'an  one, 
En  number  seven  shoes  won't  suit 
The  natcherl  size  of  every  foot, 
En  whut  '11  make  a  dozen  glad, 


'Jfore  TKJUllgum  Writ  a  JSoofe.  187 

Ez  like  ez  not  '11  make  one  sad  ; 

But  fer  myse'f  I  calkilate 

Thet  man  is  master  of  his  fate  ; 

En  well  I  know  fer  man  en  boy 

This  world  is  heapin'  up  with  joy, 

En  all  we  do  to  git  enough 

Is,  jist  grab  han'fuls  of  the  stuff 

En  cram  our  longin'  bosoms  full 

Of  gladness  irresistabull, 

Tell  him  thet  laughs  en  grins  the  best 

Gits  bigger  blisses  'an  the  rest  ! 


'FORE    WILLYUM    WRIT   A   BOOK. 

'  T7  ORE  Willyum  Wilkins  writ  a  book, 

We  allus  called  him  Bill,  fer  short, 
En  hardly  give  a  secon'  look 

At  him  beyant  the  common  sort ; 
Fer  he  wuz  one  of  us,  en  we 

Jist  never  thort  he  'd  ever  do 
Some  big,  oncommon  thing,  en  be 

Renownin'  all  the  country  through. 

I  met  him  fust  one  rainy  night 

When  fast  1  rid  my  ole  hoss  Dick 
Kersplash  to  town  with  all  my  might, 

En  brung  the  doctor  purty  quick  ; 
En  when  we  got  back,  in  her  lap 

My  wife  wuz  holdin'  him,  by  zook  ! 
A  most  onlikely  leetle  chap, — 

'Fore  Willyum  writ  a  book. 


1 88       Songs  from  tbc  Soutbwest  Country. 

I  knowed  him  when  he  uster  be 

A  leetle  freckled  cuss  thet  wur 
Same  ez  the  boys  belonged  to  me, — 

No  purtier  ner  likelier  ; 
With  britches  rolled  up,  fixed  complete, 

En  ole  straw  hat  no  pup  'ud  hook, 
En  big  stone-bruises  on  his  feet, — 

'Fore  Willyum  writ  a  book  ! 

But  now  he  's  got  a  great  big  name, — 

Bill 's  growed  to  Willyum  mighty  quick, 
En  with  the  purty  gal  called  Fame 

They  say  he  's  gittin'  orful  thick  ; 
But  he  ain't  happier  now  instid, 

Than  when  fer  city  ways  he  shook 
The  home  thet  smiles  ez  smile  it  did, 

'Fore  Willyum  writ  a  book  ! 

He  wears  a  long-tail  coat,  en  curls, 

En  tall  plug-hats,  en  spotted  ties, 
Talks  through  his  nose  at  painted  girls 

Thet  wear  gold  glasses  on  theyr  eyes  ; 
But  I  jist  know  his  soul  don't  sing 

Ez  glad  en  free  ez  when  he  took 
The  cows  to  pasture  in  the  spring, — 

'Fore  Willyum  writ  a  book  ! 

En  some  fool  college  'way  down  East 
Has  doctored  him  an  LL.D., 

En  all  sich  fol-de-rol, — at  least, 

Jake  Johnson  tells  the  same  to  me  ; 

I  s'pose  he  hardly  knows  the  fokes 
He  uster,  'fore  us  he  forsook 


"  TKHben  tbe  IRoas'fn'sBare  ie  plenty."     189 

To  dawdle  'round  with  city  blokes, — 
'Fore  Willyum  writ  a  book  ! 

They  say  them  big  bugs  do  him  proud  ; 

He  hobbies  with  the  good  en  great, 
En  jist  enthooses  every  crowd 

Comes  out  to  hear  him  speckilate  ; 
But  somehow  I  can't  picture  him 

'Cept  as  a  boy  down  by  the  brook, 
A-fishin'  in  the  shadders  dim, — 

'Fore  Willyum  writ  a  book  ! 

En  should  I  meet  him  som'ers  now, 

Ole  times  'ud  pore  my  bosom  full 
Of  them  ole  things,  en  on  my  brow 

Romp  glories  irresistabull ; 
With  quiverin'  lip  en  teary  lid 

I  'd  grab  his  hand  with  happy  look, — 
Shout  "  Howdy,  Bill !  "  as  shout  I  did 

'Fore  Willyum  writ  a  book  ! 


"WHEN  THE  ROAS'IN'-EARS  IS  PLENTY." 

^1  "ALK  about  the  joys  of  winter!     Whut's  the 

fun  of  foolin'  round 
With  the  posies  dead  en  buried,  en  the  snows  upon 

the  ground  ? 
When  the  wind  's  a-tossin'  blizzards  in  a  most  dis- 

tressin'  way 
Tell  you  have  to  set  a-straddle  of  the  fire-place  all 

the  day  ! 


igo       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

But  I  tell  ye  life  "s  a-livin'  when  the  summer  grows 
the  grass 

Over  all  the  nooks  en  crannies  whayre  a  feller's  feet 
kin  pass, 

En  the  whole  world  seems  of  heaven  but  a  half  for 
gotten  type, 

When  the  roas'in'-ears  is  plenty  en  the  worter- 
millons  ripe  ! 

Roas'in'-ears  is  best  of  eatin',  though  not  very  much 

fer  style, — 
Shuck  an  armfull  fer  yer  dinner,  sot  'em  on  en  let 

'em  bile  ; 
Salt  'em  well,  en  smear  some  butter  on  the  juicy 

cobs  ez  sweet 
Ez  the  lips  of  maple-sugar  thet  yer  sweetheart  has 

to  eat ! 
Talk  about  ole  Mount  Olympus  en  the  stuff  them 

roosters  spread 
On  theyr  tables  when  they  feasted, — nectar  drink, 

ambrosia  bread  ! 
Why,  I  tell  ye,  fellers,  never  would  I  swop  the  grub 

I  swipe 
When  the  roas'in'-ears  is  plenty  en  the  worter-mil- 

lons  ripe  ! 


Near  the  sugar-camps  of  glory  is  the  worter-millon 

patch, 
Like  a  great  big  nest  of  goodies  thet  is  jist  a-gone 

to  hatch  ; 


"TKflben  tbe  TRoas'in'sBarg  is  plenty."     191 

En  ye  take  yer  thumb  en  finger  in  an  ecstasy  so 

drunk 
Thet   ye   hardly  hear  the  music  of  theyr  dreamy 

plunky-plunk  ! 
En  the  griefs  air  gone  ferever,  en  the  sorrers  lose 

control 

Ez  ye  feed  the  angel  in  ye  on  the  honeys  of  a  soul, 
En  ye  smack  yer  lips  with  laughter  while  the  birds 

of  heaven  pipe, — 
When  the  roas'in'-ears  is  plenty  en  the  worter-mil- 

lons  ripe  ! 

O,  the  darlin'  days  of  summer  when  the  stars  of 

plenty  shine 
With  the  apples  in  the  orchard  en  the  grapes  upon 

the  vine  ; 
When  the  hedges  bud  en  blossom,  en  the  medders 

rich  en  rare 
Breathe  the  perfume  of  the  clovers  like  an  incense 

everywhayre  ! 
En  the  world  seems  like  yer  mother,  with  the  tender 

hands  thet  bless 
All  the  restless  race  of  struggle  with  a  heaped-up 

happiness, 
En  her  han'kerchiefs  of  gladness  from  yer  eyes  the 

weepin's  wipe, 
When  the  roas'in'-ears  is  plenty  en  the  worter-mil- 

lons  ripe  ! 


"  PUT  'ER  THAYRE  FER  NINETY  DAYS  ! 

"\irULL,  ole  Jim  !  of  all  the  strays  ! 
*  *       Put  'er  thayre  fer  ninety  days  ! 
Glad  to  see  ye  !     Whayre  ye  been 
Sence  ye  last  come  rollin'  in  ? 
How  's  yer  fokes  ?  en  leetle  Jim, — 
Whut  about  the  gals  en  him  ? 
Tell  me  all  in  quickes'  phrase, — 
Put  'er  thayre  fer  ninety  days  ! 


Put  'er  thayre  fer  ninety  days  ! 
How  it  warms  my  heart  to  raise 
To  yer  face  my  happy  eyes 
En  to  hear  yer  kind  replies  ! 
It  's  put  near  a  life-time  sence 
You  en  me  saw  them  events 
Thet  return  through  cloud  en  haze, — 
Put  'er  thayre  fer  ninety  days  ! 

Put  'er  thayre  fer  ninety  days, 
While  upon  yer  face  I  gaze  ! 
Not  changed  much  sence  we  wuz  boys 
Thinkin'  mischief  most  of  joys  ; 
Older  some  en  sobered  some 
By  the  jolty  roads  ye  've  come, 
192 


"  Iput  'er  tlbagre  fer  fUnetg  Da\>e ! "      193 

But  yer  tender  naytcher  stays, — 
Put  'er  thayre  fer  ninety  days  ! 


Put  'er  thayre  fer  ninety  days  ! 
Yes,  life  is  a  tangled  maze, 
Full  of  sorrers  en  of  songs, 
Cryin's,  laffin's,  rights,  en  wrongs  ; 
But  from  fountains  of  distress 
Bubble  streams  of  happiness, 
En  the  stars  in  darkness  blaze, — 
Put  'er  thayre  fer  ninety  days  ! 

Put  'er  thayre  fer  ninety  days  ! 
Whut  ye  sayin'  ?     Joy  betrays, — 
Fam'bly  dead  ?     En  leetle  Jim  ? 
Gals  en  mother  dead  with  him  ! 
O,  my  own  heart,  pardner,  knows 
Somepin  of  the  deepes'  woes  ! 
Yit  fer  all  its  grief,  life  pays, — 
Put  'er  thayre  fer  ninety  days  ! 

Put  'er  thayre  fer  ninety  days  ! 
Let  yer  hand  be  one  thet  stays  ; 
Pitch  yer  tent  en  camp  with  me 
All  the  years  thet  yit  shall  be  ! 
Love  shall  heal  yer  heart,  en  bring 
Music  fer  us  both  to  sing, 
En  our  tears  '11  roll  in  praise, — 
Put  'er  thayre  fer  ninety  days  ! 


194       Songs  trom  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 

Put  'er  thayre  fer  ninety  days  ! 
Wisdom  wreathes  us  with  her  bays, 
En  around  our  lives  entwine 
Lessons  thet  air  shore  devine  ! 
En  we  '11  live, — yes,  live, — en  love 
Tell  the  Father  up  above 
Grabs  our  hands  in  his,  en  says, 
"  Put  'er  thayre  fer  ninety  days  !  " 


AT  FWEDDIE'S. 

T  LIKE  Fweddie  mighty  well ! 

Fweddie  's  got  a  dog  what  plays 
Hide  en  seek,  en  he  can  tell 

Whare  you  go  to,  funniest  ways  ! 
He  ist  puts  his  paws  up  thare 

'Crost  his  eyes  en  shets  'em  tight, 
Tell  he  comes  en  hunts  you  whare 

You  are  hided  out  of  sight ! 


He  can  play  ball,  too,  en  fetch 

What  you  say  fer  him  to  bring, — 
Jump  into  the  pond,  en  ketch 

Sticks  en  hats  en  ever'thing  ! 
Gits  'em  in  his  mouth  en  takes 

Races  'round  a  time  er  two, 
En  he  barks,  en  shakes  en  shakes 

Dirty  worter  over  you  ! 


195 


Fweddie's  pony  's  Tiddle-wink  ; 

Littlust  one  you  ever  see  ! 
Cuter  'n  Curly,  too,  I  think,  — 

Only  'bout  as  high  as  me  ! 
Me  en  him  got  on  en  rode,  — 

Bofe  togever  ist  like  one,  — 
Didunt  make  much  of  a  load, 

En  wuz  ist  the  mostest  fun  ! 


Fweddie  hit  'im  wiv  a  stick, 

Right  thare  by  the  worter-trough, 
En  the  pony  tried  to  kick 

Up  his  heels  en  throw  us  off  ! 
Then  he  run  en  run,  tell  we 

Got  purshed  off  by  that  big  limb, — 
Fweddie  said  'at  some  time  he 

'D  ride  the  meanness  out  of  him  ! 


I  like  Fwedxlie, — yes,  I  do, 

Mighty  well,  en  Fweddie  he 
En  his  dog  en  pony,  too, 

Thinks  a  orful  sight  of  me  ; 
En  when  all  of  us  git  out 

Havin'  fun  en  bein"  glad, 
We  ist  know  a  heap  about 

Goodest  times  boys  ever  had  ! 


196       Songs  from  tbe  Soutbwest  Country. 
L'ENVOI. 

T    HAVE  sung  you  a  song 
Whether  worthy  or  not, 

Whether  righteous  or  wrong  ; 

I  have  sung  you  a  song 

Whether  little  or  long  ; 

Though  it  soon  be  forgot, 

I  have  sung  you  a  song 

Whether  worthy  or  not ! 


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